


νοσταλγία

by Luce_cm



Series: νοσταλγία [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Light Angst, Mythology References, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 41
Words: 154,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28352583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luce_cm/pseuds/Luce_cm
Summary: The King breathes a delighted laugh, and he looks at you like he’s starving for whatever he sees in you when he focuses his pale eyes. You find yourself having to school your features to keep your mouth from smiling back because even if it hurts, even if it claws at your insides with shame and promises of failure; admitting your darkness somehow makes you a little freer, like you have just let go of an old wreath of flowers.“Your blood is that of the Greeks’, Priestess, but your heart is like ours.”This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Greek/Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place around the time (to take into account character ages) of season 5a-b, but ignores most of the canon past season 4b (I want everyone to be happy, okay?)
Relationships: Hvitserk & Ivar (Vikings), Ivar & Ubbe (Vikings), Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You
Series: νοσταλγία [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076336
Comments: 105
Kudos: 119





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, in this universe, bc fuck Michael Hirst, Sigurd is alive (tho Ivar did throw the axe) but married and away, Bjorn is still somewhere sunny, and Dublin was founded in Saxon land by Hvitty, Ivar and Ubbe, but it is the latter the one in control, prompting Ivar to eventually return to Kattegat and take the throne form Lagertha (she is alive just like in the show, only Bjorn is not here -I like to think he would understand his brothers wanting to avenge Aslaug?- and Floki departed bc he didn’t want to have to choose between supporting the kid he raised and an old friend), leaving him as King, Ubbe as ruler of Dublin, Hvitserk in Kattegat for now like in the show, Bjorn getting a tan in the Mediterranean, and Sigurd alive and happy cause goddammit killing him was a stupid choice.

The warrior hesitates before letting you enter the tent, but you do so quietly and without a word, like it is _expected_ out of you, and the men discussing war take no notice of you as you slip into a seat and watch them discuss.

Narses, still in the armor of a Byzantine Strategus despite his back having been turned to the Empire for a long time, turns to look at you as you enter. He doesn’t say a word, but in his green eyes there’s a plea for you not to speak, one that you must obey with gritted teeth and bitten tongue.

He understands, and there’s relief in Narses’ eyes.

Your friend. Your confidante.

Your fool.

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his hands supporting most of his weight as he leans on the war table.

“Our numbers are strong enough to hold until support from Strepshire arrives.” The Christian you recognize as Leofric -a bishop? Cleric? You have no idea anymore- speaks, his voice not much unlike the sound of the Byzantine soldiers’ armor plates rustling together as they march down the streets, burning idols and slaying the poor fools that believed the Gods would save them.

“If we retreat, we can-…” Narses argues, but is quickly interrupted.

“You belong to us!” Leofric barks, and you startle at the sudden aggression, “You have made a deal, Greeks. You must honor it.”

“I am aware. I am also aware you Saxons would sacrifice everything for your revenge.” Narses scoffs back, interrupting the Saxon and your train of thought at the same time.

“You want the same, boy. Is it not why you insist on gaining our support?” Stithulf, the leader, states, leaning back on his chair and resting his hands on the back of his head.

His posture screams of arrogance, his young age of a boy with too much power, his scars of a monster eager to fight.

You could use someone like him leading your army. You have seen too many of the so-called soldiers in your home bend the knee to a false Emperor. Maybe you need a monster on your side, someone with the same thirst for blood Greece left you with, someone willing and able to bring the Gods down from the very Olympus for retribution.

And as he leans back he catches sight of you, his expression tightens into a scowl, and you discard the remote possibility.

Not only is he a Christian, the same brand of men that burned your home, your mother, and years later you as well; but he looks upon you like all you are to do is be one of more of virginal maidens for his strange pantheon.

“What is the witch doing here?” He asks out loud, and you swallow down the words you want to say, but still holding his gaze.

“She is to be my wife, I trust her advice.” Narses sentences, sending you a glance that you return with a grateful one of your own.

“I didn’t know you Greeks were ruled over by your women.”

“Greek women are the only ones to birth real men.” You quip before you can stop yourself, reminded with the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia of when your father told you those exact words.

“Is that what your Goddess tells you, _Heathen_?”

Even the cadence of Leofric’s voice is enough to get you to twist your lip as you turn your gaze to him, but he remains stoic, a quiet sort of anger bubbling behind his eyes. You could swear a small smile tugs at his lips, as if he truly believes a simple word is enough to silence you.

The loud interruption of Narses’ fists colliding with the table stops his mocking, and the man’s eyes shift to his Byzantine ally within a moment.

“Do not call her that.”

“It is not an insu-…” You start, but your friend turns to you once again, begging you in silence to keep quiet. Biting down a sigh, you lean back in your chair and return your eyes to the map.

A long way from home, setting tents alongside Christians, and shutting your mouth because a man told you to. For all the visions and counsel the Gods have sent you through the years, a word of what was to become of your integrity would have been appreciated.

The sound of the curtains of the tent flapping open and closed makes you lift your gaze from the map, and you see Stithulf’s retrieving back.

Narses sighs, not looking at you when he concedes, both to inform you and the rest of the Saxons and Arab mercenaries in the room,

“We will hold.”

A cold hand grips your heart and the names of the Goddesses you seek for guidance and comfort are at the tip of your tongue, shaped by your lips but never spoken.

The Christians leave you two alone, and you walk to the soldier hunched over the war table. Your native Greek feels like a soft song evoking nostalgia as it dances past your lips:

“You cannot…”

“Please, my love.”

Anger bubbles within you, and you stand up straighter as you meet his eyes, “Narses, the Varangians will overpower us, you know we lost too many already, the support from Ivar the Boneless’ incoming army will crush us, you know h-…”

“This is a matter of war, love, let me handle it.” Narses interrupts, to which you frown.

“I know of war Narses! And I know this is a foolish move!”

“Do you know how to lift a sword?” He retorts, a challenge in his voice that does not go unnoticed.

“I…” You clench your teeth, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I do not need to fight to…”

He laughs bitterly, interrupting you, “Are you hearing your own words?”

“Are you hearing yours? The Varangian King has a crown made of bones and blood, Narses, don’t be foolish. Athena rejoices when he wages war, his army carries her favor.” You spit out your words, trying to make him understand. Narses remains impassive, though, eyes on the map and jaw clenched tight.

“You cannot argue of battle if you have never-…”

You interrupt him with a scoff, pointing an accusing finger at him even when he doesn’t meet your eyes, “I do not need to know how to kill to know the Varangians will swallow you whole. And you’ll drag our people with you.”

At your last words, his head snaps up, eyes facing yours with ferocity and more than old anger, “What choice do I have, huh? We will freeze or starve come winter, we need to move for Eleusis soon!”

“Our people…” You start, but he interrupts you again.

“Our people chose to follow me, and they will.”

“They followed _me_ , they believe in _me_ ,” You correct without hesitation, teeth bared, “ _You_ followed me, Narses, and I let you, because you promised me an army.”

For a second he hesitates, takes you in with what seem to be new eyes. He seems to have forgotten there’s more than a meek priestess to the woman he followed from Attica. He seems to forget the bloodied hands and hungry smile that greeted him when you gave him the choice to be at your side.

“And I followed you because I love you, because I believe in you!” He exclaims, making shame and regret churn at your insides. You deviate your eyes from his, gritting your teeth.

“I begged you not to force our people to fight against these Norsemen, and you didn’t listen,” You grit out after a few breaths, anger returning to your voice, “Where was your love, your trust, when you chose to ally with these…Christians?”

He takes one of your hands in his, and the touch feels cold.

“You must trust me with this,” He intreats, warm eyes looking for something in your own you don’t think he can find. “Can you trust me?” A small pause, and you taste your own regrets in your mouth, “Love me?”

You press your lips into a line, and because you cannot say anything else, because the lie has gone on for too long and you might as well offer a truth before you entreat your soul to Hades, you whisper,

“Once, I could have.”

But he shakes his head, fervent and certain as he finds your eyes again,

“I promised you Attica, and it _will_ be yours.”

But his words are empty. You do not care for that kingdom if the people that you love are not alive and prospering in it.

“Pray to the Gods you are killed by the Varangians, old friend. I will sacrifice you to Hades myself if you dare return alive from the place you are condemning my people to die on.” You sentence, unable to keep from showing the curl of disgust in your lip, the ancient pain in your eyes.

Narses walks closer to you, eyes searching yours and hands on your shoulders. You clench your jaw. He is gentle, he always is. Gentle, but so were the men that held you as their brothers in arms dragged your mother out of that temple.

You take a step back, but Narses speaks still, ignoring your discomfort,

“These Christians care not for their God, they just want Ivar the Boneless and his brothers. We give them to Stithulf, and they will march for Eleusis with us.”

You shake your head as you watch him believe his own lies.

“Even if we succeed, you are exchanging one master for another, Narses.” The words are your farewell as you turn your back to him and walk towards the entrance of the tent.

____

You walk into your tent and are greeted with a language these Saxons want to have you killed for speaking. The tongue of savages, of barbarians, of _Vikings_.

“Did they threaten to burn you yet?” Sieghild asks, and you can hear the smile in her voice even if her back is turned to you as she tends to the fire.

“Narses and Stithulf command us to remain,” You confess instead, voice breaking, “Kattegat’s army will be here in a day’s time to aid Dublin’s, but we will not retreat.”

The gasp she lets out forces you to shut your eyes tight in hope of keeping the tears at bay.

You both remain silent for a few instants, and you let yourself fall to the log she brought as a seat. Taking a seat next to you, she places a motherly hand on your knee, squeezing lightly until you look back up at her.

Blueish ink traces ancient marks on the skin of her face, and she moves a lock of your hair away from your face, the rattling sounds of her bracelets and trinkets reaching your ears and filling you with a sense of nostalgia you have difficulty explaining.

“If we must, we will die. Resisting, like your mother and I taught you.”

“This is not the war I will die fighting on!” You yell back, closing your hands into fists as they start shaking. “I will not see my people die fighting a cause not their own, Sieghild. _I can’t_.”

She takes your head in her hands gently, and, pressing cold lips to your forehead, she gives you the comfort only a mother can.

“Even if we die tomorrow, the Gods are with us. They have been close to you since your birth. You will understand soon.”

“I will certainly see Hades soon.” You smile bitterly, but Sieghild doesn’t falter.

“Then challenge his throne.” She states, and the feral, hungry, look in her eyes makes you think she is not speaking of your God.

You do not even believe in the same Gods, and yet Sieghild remains at your side, you at hers, since she found a crying child clutching a wooden carving of Persephone.

_“They want me to give them up, but I won’t.” You argue stubbornly, as the red-haired woman cleans your face with a warm wet cloth. She smiles._

_“Arguing about Gods is a matter for adults, little one,” She silences your next argument with a single finger, inked and painted like her face and arms. “They cannot make you believe in their God.”_

_“But…Mother’s altar, th-they…”_

_“Those are merely worldly things. The Christians fight with fire what Logi and Glöð themselves have created.”_

_“Who?”_

_She chuckles, fingers going through your hair and places a finger on your chest._

_“Your faith, your legacy, remain here.”_

And at dawn, when the men sound the horns and ready for a battle they must know will be lost, you whisper a prayer to Athena and Enyo, your heart griped tight by the cruel mistresses of Fate.

Even all the tales travelers and mercenaries told you about the army of Kattegat, the sheer strength, the flawless tactics, the barbarian-like warriors; none of that prepared you for the display of forces, however small considering his actual army, Ivar the Boneless has displayed before you.

You catch a glimpse of Narses and Stithulf approaching the King, you hear faintly of the Viking’s taunts.

“Narses is a fool.” You bite out, anger poisoning your voice even as tears clogging your throat make the words wobble.

“A Byzantine Strategus doesn’t fall without a fight, girl. Do not grant my countrymen their victory just yet.”

Even if you hide it as you lower your face, a surge of pride for the foolish warrior that followed you to the ends of the world makes a small smile blossom in your face.

“Do I hear you admitting us soft citizens stand a chance against your brutes, mother?” You mock with a smile, even as you discuss the imminent danger that the Norse men represent to you and your people. Maybe it’s because of the way Sieghild, with all her harshness and tough lessons, comforts you even facing death itself. Maybe it’s the Gods that have guided you your whole life embracing you as you near your descent to Hades.

She laughs, raspy and warm, as always. “I’m saying your boy may give the sons of Ragnar an entertainment.”

A crow flies overhead, cawing loudly and taking your gaze away from the soldiers ahead and into the sky. Something within you, something primal and asleep seems to follow its path in the skies with more than just your eyes.

“Odin is watching. History will be made today.” Sieghild whispers behind you, but you cannot take your gaze away from the black feathers as you answer.

“Apollo sends us an omen. The Gods do not favor us.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head as she rests a heavy hand on your shoulder

“Your Goddess surely revels in this, dear. The spilled blood of those who will be to arrive at her kingdom waters her flowers, after all.“

Flashes of a life before chaos blossom behind your closed eyes, images of a life under the spring sun, of fertility festivals and your mother’s warm laughter as she honors the Daughter of Nature.

And for a second, with the warmth of nostalgia encompassing you, you want to argue that Persephone looks after life; but when your eyes open and all you see is war and cold, you realize maybe she wasn’t the one captured.

Maybe she was not a stolen maiden, but a bloodthirsty usurper.

“May she rejoice, then, and be merciful when we reach her Kingdom.” You whisper.

The war cries reach your ears before you can even see the warriors attack, but soon chaos follows the chariot, that marches not with the set pace of Apollo’s, but free and leaving chaos and death at its wake.

With a heavy weight on your stomach, you hold your place as the battle begins, the injured and dying falling back to the area you look after with Greek soldiers at your back, granting a safe haven for the fallen, either to give them another chance to fight or a merciful end.

_____

It’s been days and the Saxons still push for victory, despite the losses. And, despite their losses and bloodshed, the Vikings push ruthlessly for death.

The camp of healers you have set by the entrance of the woods is so filled with the stench of blood and death that you fear you will never be able to smell a flower again. The warriors come and go, the drachmas in their eyes or in their hands. Your heart dies a little with every familiar face you send off to Hades.

You are working on pressing down with the poultice of herbs to stop a soldier from bleeding from the wound on his back when you hear, past the yells and death and fighting, your name.

You would know that voice anywhere, and you leave the safety of the healing camp to follow the hoarse call.

Narses’ figure stumbles and crawls as he tries reaching you, and, not caring for battle, you run the space separating you. Your knees dig painfully into the earth as you kneel at his side, but the pain in your heart drowns it all.

“No, no, no,” You sob, shaking fingers tracing his bloodied cheeks as he gasps in pain in your arms. His eyes are focused on you, and you cannot deny him the answer of yours, even if battle still goes on around you. With another broken gasp, you whisper, “You fool, you fool.”

Galla calls your name from somewhere at your side, and you turn blind attention to her, murmuring to have people take him to the healers’ tent. She agrees, and you start to pull away from your childhood friend.

Narses opens his mouth to speak, but only blood pours out. You silence him with trembling fingers against his lips, granting the kiss you cannot. Your heart begs you to do something, _anything_ , to keep him alive, to take away his pain, to…to…

But all you do is remain kneeling on the ground, and you cannot take your eyes off his shield. Splattered with blood and mud, left behind a few feet away from you, on the cold and unrelenting earth.

Your mother’s last words to your father, you remember them as if it were yesterday, as if you could still see the warmth in her gaze, the hardened adoration in his. Her delicate hands offering him the shield with Sparta’s symbol on it as he prepared to storm Macedonia, her words a murmur that meant _come back to us, my love_ even when her sentence was other.

Return home with it, or on it.

_With it, or on it. With it, or on it. With it, or on it._

But Narses never returned home, none of you ever did. He never returned home, he didn’t die for your home, he died for…for…

You hear hurried footsteps coming towards you, the feeling of having Varangian eyes on you makes you turn just in time to see the warrior approaching. You grab Narses’ shield from the ground, moving as fast as you can to guard your back and block the Viking’s strike with the metal shield.

It is sheer anger and grief, nothing more than the desire to hurt back, that pushes you to take an arrow from the quiver at your back and drive it through the warrior’s knee with your bloodied hand.

He falters, stumbling away from you, but you don’t let go, holding on tightly to the shaft of the arrow and inflicting as much pain as you can. When he finally hits the ground with his back, you crawl over him, sitting on his stomach and bashing his face with the shield.

With your weight upon him, his axe cannot find a home in your skin and instead meets the shield. Over and over, metal meets metal. With a growl, the Viking lets go of it and grabs your hair, pulling roughly and forcing your blows in his face to stop.

You let go of the shield, and your eyes focus on the skies above for a moment before you find the strength to fight.

A yell leaves your lips, and your hungry teeth find the tender skin at the inside of his arm, forcing him to let go of your hair. Blood fills your mouth and almost makes you gag. You spit the flesh from your mouth and with a snarl you drive another arrow through his eye.

He screams as your whole weight leans on the arrow, making sure the projectile you use as a spear kills fast. Your hands keep slipping from the shaft as the blood you have tried to keep from spilling and the blood you have spilled wets your hands.

When he finally stops moving, you know you should feel nothing but emptiness and dread.

Looking with frantic eyes for Narses and Galla, you find him being carried by two of his soldiers back to the tent. You should follow, but you cannot bring yourself to do so.

You look down at your dress. Red, the color of a bride’s veil, stained with the blood of the man you just killed. Your ears ring, your eyes cloud with tears as you realize what you have done, and you scurry away from the corpse as if your breath cannot get into your chest because of your proximity to him…to it.

You know what you should feel, you know what a Priestess, a woman, ought to feel at the sight of death, you know. But dread and horror are not the only things you feel. A part of you is satiated, like a snake curling satisfied and vindicated after injecting its poison; you taste the blood and feel _alive_.

When you lift your gaze to the battle again, you catch the eyes of the Varangian King. You know who he is, you have heard the tales and even without the chariot he sits on you would still recognize the eyes of the man that rules over Kattegat.

Ivar the Boneless.

He looks at you for a few moments, and you fear he is to call for his men or kill you himself, but he doesn’t. A slow, cruel, ruthless smile starts curving at his bloodthirsty lips, and when he regards you, you feel he can see through your eyes and into whatever it is that made you kill that man.

He lifts his arm not on the reins, bloodied axe held in his hand and slowly, with the same terrifying grin still on his lips, the King points towards you and grants you a curt bow of his head. If it’s a recognition of your kill, a promise to kill you himself, or something else, you cannot know.

You scurry back to the woods, fearing an axe to your back that never comes.

____

Whatever advantage the Christians were so sure to have quickly dissolves like mist, and within days the Vikings push forward with no regard for the lines your people or your unwanted masters wanted to protect.

There’s three injured men under your care when you hear the warning that a group of enemies is coming your way. A quick glance towards Galla, the childhood friend that followed you from Eleusis into this cold hell lets her know what to do.

Her dark eyes fill with understanding before you can even utter a word.

“Lift them up, we are retreating.” She barks at the other soldiers, bow held tightly in her hand betraying her fear, her pain. The men accompanying her hesitate, looking at you for a second before turning to her.

“I may not be able to fight like a Strategus, but I can distract them enough for you to run.”

“Our people…” One of them starts, but you interrupt with a shake of your head, reaching forward with a courage you do not believe to truly possess and take his sword from its holster.

“Our people live on in you,” You promise, and even as your voice wavers you still try not to show how fear grips at your throat or how unbalanced you are with the new weight in your hands. Galla’s eyes lock with yours, and you give her a nod, “Go.”

_I pray you find Sieghild on your way out of this slaughter._

“You better make it out alive.” She threatens in good will, and you find yourself smiling. Just before she is to take off with the others, you call out.

“Galla,” You hesitate, feeling like asking to deploy this would be an acceptance of your death. Still, you take a deep breath and say, “Once the dust settles, send some of your people to Thebes, Constantinople and Sparta.”

“What for?” She asks, but in her tone you can hear she understands your words: she is to protect your people, she is to lead them. Because you will not be alive to do so.

“You’ll need spies. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with them.” You sentence, and after a moment of hesitation you hear the girl’s footsteps fading behind you.

Galla’s hoarse yells in Greek to call your people to retreat become the rhythm at which you let loose arrows to find the Viking warriors. You tell yourself it’s just like hunting deer, you tell yourself it is not men and women you kill. Brothers, sisters, friends, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.

You tell yourself it is just like hunting, but the tears clogging at your throat and making pain and rage accompany your moves as you let the arrows loose show you that you don’t believe your own lies.

It doesn’t matter how fast you move, how efficient your shots are, there will always be more of them. And you know this, and fear has a cold grip on your heart, even as you continue trying to take out any straggler that chases after the retreating Greeks.

So, the bodies dropping and the injured yells bring the attention to you, and you buy Galla and the others as much time as you have arrows and legs to run on.

Running helps when the Vikings can be distracted by something else, but after you took down some of his countrymen, this warrior seems to only have eyes for you. You scramble to lift the sword you took from your warrior before they took off, and, cornered as you are, you are forced to face the offending Viking.

The Viking strikes first, but you block his attack with the sword. The blunt force of his swing makes it so that the axe stops just shy of the intended blow to your head, opening a deep cut on your forehead as it is slowed by the sword.

Wincing past the pain you hold your ground, facing the hungry gaze of the warrior with your own, although you are forced to close one of your eyes as the blood from the cut in your forehead starts dripping down your face.

The man’s attack has failed, but he smirks, though, before wrenching the weapon from your hands with a twist of his axe.

You can do nothing but stumble back, you Goddess’ name on your lips as you face him with wide eyes.

He mutters something in his own language before discarding your sword and moving to strike again. This time you are defenseless, and can only step back and try and dodge his continuous blows with increasing panic.

Blood, probably his own and his enemy’s, stains his mouth, his face, his hands. He still smiles, and you wonder if bloodthirst becomes more literal than what Sieghild explained in her tales of her people.

His movements stop suddenly, though, and he falls limply to the ground, a small axe protruding from the back of his head.

“I told you you’d need to know how to fight, little one,” Sieghild boasts as she approaches you. The axe leaving the dead man’s skull makes a horrible sound, but she’s not bothered by it, choosing instead to say, “Even you Greeks must see the advantage of fighting like a Viking.”

_An arrow in his knee, you feel the iron piercing the muscle, the bone, the tendons. The edge of the shield breaking the bones in his face, the sound it makes. Screams of pain, that you silence with another arrow in the eye._

_The King’s hungry smile when he spared you._

You shake your head, returning your thoughts back to the moment, and regard the woman in front of you with a smile.

“Galla told me you chose to stay behind.” She states, and years knowing her let you know of the reprimand shining past the gruff tone. Her hand, bloodied as it is, reaches for the cut in your forehead, inspecting it with the eyes of someone that saw countless wounds and fought in countless wars.

“I wanted to distract the warriors from the path they took.” You offer in explanation.

“For someone so…small you sure take a lot of risks, my child.” She sighs. You’re about to answer when the thrumming of the ground underneath your feet stops you. Sieghild’s movements stop, your breath dies in your lungs.

Bees swarming. You remember an Arab merchant telling you about Varangian armies, and he spoke of chaos and deadliness and bloodthirst. And as you watch the Varangians flank the battlefield, archers at the ready, warriors beating their shields, while the King that crossed the sea to assist his brother commands them to hold with a single gesture; you cannot help but think why didn’t the merchant talk about the grace of it all, the beauty in the blood.

“That boy carries his father’s cleverness with him. And his mother’s favor.” Sieghild mutters in the strange calm that settles as Ivar the Boneless and his brothers taunt Stithulf, dare him to continue the fight and face certain death or retreat.

“You knew that before.”

“So did you. You tried to warn Narses against facing him, little one.” She says, and the name makes a pit of guilt and grief form in your heart.

“Maybe my warnings are the reason he is dead now.” You bite out, voice quivering and eyes burning.

The shieldmaiden turns to you, lips parted and eyes wide. You offer her a nod and a tight-lipped smile, a small sign that it is okay, that…that it is Fate.

You promised Narses you’d kill him yourself for sending your people to die, and grief and pain do not stray you from that resolve. He sentenced your people to die at the hands of these Varangians, it is only right he leads them to the Underworld.

It doesn’t help the pit of pain and absence and fear and cold that forms at your chest, but…but it makes it easier to burden.

Murmured words in Norse startle you out of your thoughts, and you find Sieghild’s eyes still on you, expression still stunned and in a mix of awe and terror.

“ _When the last of the chains of nostalgia fades away even as she clutches it in her arms.”_

“What did you say, mother?” You ask, taking a small step closer and looking into her eyes searching for any answer.

But the shieldmaiden is quick to put on a smile on her face,

“You told me before you had no interest in what Lady Freyja has to tell me, little one.” She mocks, but there’s a shadow in her expression, a strange darkness looming behind her eyes.

A familiar one.

_“You are the one that taught me-…”_

_“I taught you to be your own woman!” The Varangian roars, and for the first time you realize exactly the kind of fire the women from her homeland have, that made them capable and_ free _. “I taught my daughter better than this!”_

 _“What choice do I have? We need the support from Narses’ army, we need someone to lead the men into battle the way I_ know _will grant us victory!”_

_Two long strides, and the tall and imposing shieldmaiden is standing before you, a mix of reluctant softness and angry stoicism in her inked face._

_“You fight. You fight against the notions these men have about you, you fight against that boy that only listens to what you have to say when you promise him love in exchange,” Her green eyes burn into yours, “You fight, little one. That’s what I taught you to do, what you were born to do.”_

_“Narses is a good man, mother. I will not fight him.” You reply, as calmly as you can even as your chest caves under a strange pressure, as evenly as you can even if the words leaving your lips taste like lies._

_“You wouldn’t give your love without a fight though,_ minn dóttir _.” Her hand grasps at your chin, and there’s a strange storm in her gaze, “I won’t lose my daughter to that boy’s whims.”_

_“I am not lost to any man.”_

_Her lips curve into a smile, a little savage, a little_ Viking _._

_“I know. You are my daughter, after all.”_

“He was a good man, mother.” You offer quietly, and even if the binds to Narses, the binds you set on yourself and your mother hated the most, are gone, there’s still the same dark desperation, that same stubbornness you saw in her eyes that day you told her about your choice to marry him.

“Not good enough,” Is all she replies, and her eyes focus somewhere past the two of you, on the center of the battlefield where everything seems to have stopped. Sieghild sighs, “And your Gods and mine know that, little one. Your Mistress may have touched your soul, but Freyja lays claim to your heart.”

With your eyes on the thick of battle, you watch Stithulf and his trusted men lay down their weapons, and slowly retreat. You have been defeated.

____

“I told you only death would follow,” You say, your back against the foot of a table as you sit on the cold ground, your bloodied hands in your lap, motionless. You allow yourself a small laugh, manic and broken as it is, “You fought for so long, sacrificed so much, and you couldn’t even make the Varangian King bleed.”

You followed the Saxons back to their decadent city, and now sit past their walls awaiting the death that will follow. The city may have held for long enough that the Saxons could secure an escape, back when your people were with them and they didn’t have more corpses than soldiers.

But now, now it is just a matter of time before the Varangians return to finish it all.

Stithulf turns to you, cold fury shining past his gaze, but you hold his stare. The man walks over to you, armor rustling and making a sound that rings in the ears that have heard nothing but war for so long now.

He bends down to be at your level, face close to yours and lips set on a snarl.

“You ordered your people to pull back.” He accuses, but you shrug in response.

The pretense of what a good little fucking woman you ought to be to make these fools content with their idea of supremacy is long gone from your mind. You will die without masks, and if it means earning a few deserved hits from these Saxons for not shutting your mouth, then so be it.

“It was never our war, Christian.”

“Where have they gone to!?” He asks, ignoring your words. His fascination with how the Greek forces work shines through his bloodthirst and anger as he regards you. You know the reason why he went to Narses for an allegiance in the first place is because of the tactics, the fighting style, of your people; and you know he longed to make them a part of his own army.

But you will leave your own under the boot of a Christian the day Persephone calls for your soul to become one of her Furies.

“You will never find them.” You promise through a tired and battle-worn smile, morbidly delighting yourself in the way he seems to grow more enraged.

“How are you so certain?”

“The Varangians, _Vikings_ , will find us first. They will kill us all, and you know this.” You sentence, standing up. You cannot help it when your eyes fixate themselves on the drying blood staining your hands.

You wish you could say most of it was Christian, or even Varangian.

But no, the blood of Greeks stains your hands. The blood of thousands, even if only less than eight hundred died today.

“And why are you so certain?”

“If you had retreated before that King came from across the sea-…”

“Narses told us your mother is Viking, how are we certain you did not plan this, plan to betray us?” One of his trusted men speaks out, limping from his place by the war table. You watch the deep and bloodied gash in his thigh, wondering why that old man survives being incapacitated while in battle but Narses is to fall.

You shake your head mutely before offering him a hollow chuckle.

“Me betraying you would imply I ever faked loyalty for you, or pretended to care for your survival.”

“You live, witch. Any sane man would question why.”

“You think…what? That I have helped any of the sons of Ragnar defeat you?” You let out a small laugh. “No, I did not. I will not let you blame me for your own weakness.”

You move to leave the tent, but Stithulf’s hand wraps around your arm. His voice is low when he speaks.

“If you tell your soldiers to fight with us, I can-…”

“I am not Narses, you cannot fool me with empty promises,” You interrupt, wrenching your arm from his grasp. Less than two hundred Greek warriors still remain in this city, and the Saxon wants still for every last drop of their blood. “The Greeks that remain here will not die quietly, but do not fool yourself into thinking you can ever command them.”

He stalks even closer, looming over you with enraged factions, and you cannot help the pang of fear that the murderous intent in his eyes sends through you.

His sword leaving its holster startles the room of men into silence, and you feel their attention set on the two of you. The blade finds a home right under your chin, piercing mildly at the soft skin.

Your breath quickens in fear, and when you swallow past your dry throat you feel the tip of the sword inflicting sharp pain in your neck.

Stithulf smiles darkly, “I could kill you now and leave them leaderless, heathen.”

But you refuse to let him see the fear in your eyes, instead promising, “Make me a martyr and you will not survive the night, _Christian_. The Greeks will kill and die for me.”

Even as you leave the tent behind, you hear the heavy footsteps of the Saxon behind you. A call of your name, and you stop. Not your title - _Anassa_ , _Hiereiai_ -, not an insult -heathen, pagan-, not your lineage -Daughter of Athens, Daughter of Sparta-. Your name.

“If you wanted to kill me you would have done so in front of your men.” You state without turning around, and the Christian reaches your side with his sword holstered.

“I don’t want to kill you,” He insists, shaking his head, “But I should do it regardless. You are a smart woman, which makes you dangerous.”

Not even a muzzle would keep your next words from leaving your lips, “Dangerous? Is a man dangerous for being knowledgeable?”

“If he has nothing to lose, like you, yes.”

“What are you saying, Stithulf?”

The Saxon sighs, an act of regret and humanity you don’t believe for a moment.

“I’m saying you should know that you have forced my hand, Greek, that I had every intention to have you wage war alongside us, had you chosen to do so.


	2. Chapter 2

You are focused on the blending of some herbs to help the pain of some of the warriors, when a round metal shield is dropped at your feet. You raise your eyes from the snake engraved on the old metal to the Saxon, giving away nothing except a small twitch of your mouth.

But you know what that symbol is. It is a mark of the Attics.

“Most of the Greeks are dead,” He states, certainly, viciously. Your eyes fall closed, and you heave a sigh. “And I will personally see that the survivors are hunted down.”

You knew this was going to happen. The Varangians cornered Stithulf into the confine of these walls and yet last night he sent a hunting party, the best of the best within his Arab mercenaries.

You knew he wasn’t going to try and kill Ivar the Boneless or his brothers. No, he was going to take revenge on the people he deemed failed him, the people he deemed owed him a victory.

And it makes the whole ground cave under your feet, the realization that it is done. That the last of the Attics lie bloodied on the unforgiving earth. That their faith in you, their love for you, was their downfall.

Just like Narses’.

“I always knew you Christians were just as bloody and cruel as the worst of us,” You say instead, looking down at the shield again and picking it up with trembling hands, “You slaughtered hundreds of innocents.”

“If you had fought for us…” He starts, but you interrupt him with a glare. Some things don’t change even if you get far from home: all it takes to stop an army, to make a man like Stithulf hesitate, is a heathen witch.

If only their God hadn’t taught him to fear yours, the world would be so different.

“We’d all rather be dead than slaves to a Christian.” You hiss out, curling your fingers over the cold and bloodied metal. And you mean more than this battle, this war not your own that regardless you lost; no, you mean Byzantium, and the home you left behind.

“You could have avoided all of this, Greek.” He insists, the scar that runs from his neck to his uneven sideburn stretching around the smile he offers.

For a moment you imagine letting your hand run a knife deeply through that scar, open it again and see it pour red and victorious blood. Trace with a knife over every scar, so that he only remembers the torment you brought him.

 _No, that’s wrong_. Trying to hide the grimace at your own thoughts, you shake off the shame and stand up. Holding on tightly to the shield, you feel you carry the weight of thousands of Greeks on your hand.

And because you were taught speaking things helped make them real, you promise, “Our Gods live on, and the worship of them is not something blades and blood can smother. Quieten, yes, but never silence.”

“You will die for your pagan ways, you know this, don’t you?” He asks, stopping you for a moment at the…honesty in his voice.

“I do not fear death,” You answer, and when you walk past an open window that looks over the foreign and cold horizon you add, quiet enough that only the Gods may hear you, “I welcome it. Let Hades summon me home.”

“I have reached an agreement with the Vikings,” Stithulf calls out, voice loud and echoing in the halls. You grip the shield tighter. “There will be…negotiations tomorrow.”

Your mouth smiles and your tongue runs with dangerous words before you can stop yourself, “You will sit and talk with the same men you scoured the world trying to kill?”

“I know when I am defeated, Greek. Something you lack.”

You say nothing else, the defeat finally setting over your shoulders and all you can do to keep appearances is to keep walking and pretend the tears are not clogging your view as you walk past unfamiliar halls, on unfamiliar grounds, with the weight of unfamiliar and familiar ghosts over your head.

Spending the rest of the day, almost till the sun sets, taking care of some wounds and fevers, you can almost pretend to yourself that the life you give here, the damage you heal here; can start to make up for all the death you and your mistakes have caused.

You raise your head from your work on the stitching when strange rhythmic sounds reach your ears.

Metal on wood. Dragging sounds. Metal on wood again. Something dragged again.

The door to the barren and almost empty home you are using as a makeshift infirmary opens, and the silhouette of Ivar the Boneless stands on the doorway.

Your heart pounds in your ears, and the warrior with his injured skin under your fingers hisses a breath when your needle pierces deeper than intended into his skin. You mumble an apology in Greek, but keep your eyes on the King.

“You don’t need healing.” You quip quietly in his language, rising to your feet and motioning for the Greek you were helping to remain in his seat.

To be honest, you don’t know why you stand up, why you straighten your back and raise your chin. You can pretend to be as tall as you wish, as strong as you wish, but everyone in this room knows if the Varangian wants you dead you will be so.

“I wanted to talk to you.” The Viking offers, forced nonchalance as he approaches. His legs don’t seem to work normally, and the contraptions around them are like you never saw before. The healer in you notes they look…painful.

He gets close enough you can see his handsome face clearly in the candlelight, but far enough you don’t feel threatened. The King remains standing, straight and proud, by one of the wooden pillars.

His pale eyes, you note in the now clear view the candles provide you, switch to the warrior sitting a few feet behind and then return to you. You resist the urge to play with your fingers.

“Why?” You ask, retrieving with trembling hands one of the linens you will use as bandages for the wound on the Greek warrior’s back.

“I’m…curious.”

“So am I,” You reply, rolling the needle you use for the stitches between your thumb and forefinger as you study the man. “It is not every day that I find myself meeting with a Viking King.”

“So you know who I am.” He states, and you cannot know if he is disappointed, proud, or a mix of the two.

“Of course I do,” You answer without hesitation, “And I also know it is not me who you are supposed to be meeting.”

“I wanted to talk with you, witch.” He insists again, reminding you of a spoiled child, but also showing you that, either for the foreignness or something entirely him, the Varangian is uncertain on how to talk to you.

It almost makes a smile curve at your lips, and your impulsive heart wants you to send the warrior off and talk with this strange man, this…Ivar the Boneless.

“I…am busy,” You answer instead, returning to your stitching. If your hand trembles a little and you cause a little more pain than you intended as you finish up the last of the stitches, no one can blame you. “I must tend to the wounded, Varangian.”

“A smart woman would know better than to deny me.”

“I never claimed to be smart.”

“Are you always this insufferable, woman?” He snaps, anger rises in his voice, making the warrior you are standing behind tense under your fingers as they wrap a bandage over his back and ribs to keep the wound from infection.

But you, past the fear, feel a small smile start to curve at your lips when you find the pale eyes of the Varangian King.

“I try.” You reply with a shrug, but a growl is the only answer you get.

You watch with wide eyes as the Viking unsheathes a small knife from somewhere in his chest and, instead of throwing it like you would expect, he flips it so that he grabs onto the blade instead of the handle.

His fist clenches around it, eliciting a sharp breath from the King and blood that drips between his fingers.

“There,” He grunts, opening his hand and letting the knife clatter unceremoniously to the wooden floor. He returns his piercing pale eyes to you and his mouth almost bares in a snarl, his nose furrows in cold anger, as he speaks, “Now you have to tend to me.”

So the rumors were true, he is actually crazy. Although you doubt a man that can topple Aelle, that can conquer York, is crazy.

No, he is clever. If maybe too angry and arrogant, he is still cunning. That thought alone reminds you to keep your guard up.

A part of your mind begs you to be sensible about this, not to do anything stupid, but you finish wrapping the wound on the warriors back with skilled fingers, and tap his shoulder so that he stands. Ivar the Boneless keeps his eyes on you, defiantly and terrifyingly, as he watches you move. You turn your attention to the Greek and nod as goodbye, “ _Go, I will be fine._ ”

The man looks between the Varangian and you, before putting his right fist to his heart, his left arm bent behind him in a goodbye and a sign of respect to you.

“ _Anassa_.” He mutters in farewell, and you watch him go wondering how many days will it take for him to also die because of your mistakes.

And as the door closes behind the Greek, you notice truly how engulfing the darkness and the defenselessness are. The city moves on around you, but all that reaches the small cabin you are in is the faint sounds of a stray horse or farm animal. The Saxons wouldn’t want the heathen witch to be near their soldiers, after all, even in a city that was never theirs with barely any civilians on it.

All that means you are all alone and defenseless, with a Viking _known_ for his cruel and vicious ways. Gritting your teeth and fighting to keep your heartbeat from drumming away in your ears, you turn back to the Varangian and motion for a chair near you.

He doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t, because no one in this cursed land listens to a damn word you say.

His hand still drips red to the wooden floor, and you pointedly look at it where it rests on his side and back to his face. The King only cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed.

“You speak many tongues,” The Varangian states, not even a question, “Our language, the Saxons’, but I don’t recognize the other one.”

“Greek,” You reply, “I am not from here.”

“I noticed.”

With a shrug, you state, “Probably why you haven’t killed me yet, isn’t it?”

But the Viking doesn’t answer. Instead, he limps towards you, but where there should be -to a sane woman, maybe- a threat, a danger, you only find your heart beating with the same fast pace it did when you were about to cross a dangerous and wild stream by Eleusis’ forests. A hint of fear, a hint of curiosity, and much more than a hint of freedom.

The rage of the stream deafened you, uncertainty beat quickly on your chest…but your bare feet still continued running towards the water.

You keep your eyes on his.

“You are…outspoken, witch. Are all Greeks like you?”

_“You should lower your eyes when men are speaking.” He advises with more than a little anger in his tone._

_You hear faintly of Sieghild’s mocking scoff, and you stand up from your chair and stalk to Narses in a few strides, keeping your eyes on him. A sick part of you is trying to test him, to dare him into laying hands on you to shut you up._

_The lies would come easier if he did._

_“I cower before no man,_ my love. _” The endearment drips with poison, and the twitch in his expression tells you he is aware of it._

_There’s rustling of armor, and out of the corner of your eye you catch sight of Lysander straightening to his full height, the mantle of the soon-to-be Anax of Sparta set well over his shoulders as he walks calmly towards you._

_For a moment of distrust and panic, you think he will take the side that wants to silence you, but your cousin stands next to you, although slightly behind, offering you his support. His hand is comforting on your shoulder._

_“You may do things differently in Attica, but in Laconia our women are not slaves,” Lysander promises, voice dripping authority and more than a slight threat, “Descendant of Theseus, aren’t you?” He breathes out a chuckle, “You will have to venture into the Underworld like your ancestor to make a woman of Spartan blood cave.”_

You breathe out a laugh, “No.”

“So you are not afraid of me.”

You look into his pale eyes and wonder for a moment. What is there to fear? It is true his fame precedes him, even if you choose to ignore his name, his truth. Rumors of madness, ruthlessness, unpredictability, rage, cruelty; they all are kept safely in your mind, to torment you faintly with exactly the kind of beast you try to dance with.

But you remember the time that mad man in the flimsy boat offered to take you to cross the Aegean, and how the threat of pain and death and cold all hung over you like shadows; and yet the curiosity of what lay in the realm of _what if_ made you still get on that feeble boat. You have a feeling it is the same kind of stubborn and reckless curiosity that makes you offer the King a small smile.

“I learned long ago not to fear any man, Varangian.” You answer, motioning with your hand to his injured one, hoping for response this time.

The Viking’s eyes are defying as they challenge yours, but you refuse to lower your gaze. He sits by you on one of the chairs, movements graceful and confident as he discards the crutch he uses to walk by the table.

After a breath, he offers you his injured hand.

You don’t hesitate, even if a part of you tells you that you should, and take a seat at his side, working instinctively as you start wetting a clean cloth in some water infused with honeysuckle and goldenseal.

Taking his hand and opening the rough fingers to your sight and touch, you clean off the blood and hope silently that you are not the one responsible for Ivar the Boneless getting an infection for a stupid wound on his hand.

“Why are you and your people here, if you are from the Mediterranean?” He asks suddenly, but it doesn’t startle you like it should.

With a deep breath and keeping your eyes on your work, you offer, “The obvious answer would be attacking your city, my King.”

“And retreating.” He points out lowly, not biting into your taunt.

Lifting your eyes to his, you search his pale gaze for a few moments. You offer him sincerity in exchange for his calm, “The Christians were going to surrender, we knew this the moment your army arrived. We had no interest in this war of yours.”

“Then why fight in it?”

“Obvious answer, my King?” You ask around a smirk, and the man’s eyes darken as he leans closer. A finger underneath your chin threatens you as much as a sharp blade could, and you swallow past a dry throat.

“Careful.” He cautions, and his lips curve around a smile as dangerous and poisonous as it is enthralling and tempting.

“Our commander agreed we aided the Saxons in exchange for their army’s help in our homeland. With my-…with the commander dead the Greeks were called to retreat.”

“But not you,” He points out, still uncomfortably close. “You didn’t retreat.”

You wish you had an answer to his unspoken question. But you don’t. You could have run with Galla and the others, you could have forged your own path with Sieghild away from battle, the Gods know you have done so before.

You could have, but still you fell back to the Saxon city as if survival was to be achieved only by acceptance of defeat.

“A lady ought to have her secrets, I’m afraid.” You answer instead, lowering your eyes back to your work. Although you can sense the young Viking wants to demand more, because of course he does, he remains silent.


	3. Chapter 3

You can feel his eyes on your face as he watches you, and the weight of his stare makes a strange warmth, a strange familiarity, curl at your chest and stomach. To distract yourself from such thoughts, you try offering him a smile.

“Good news, you won’t lose your hand,” You joke weakly, “By grace of…Eir, is it?”

His eyebrows lift, the surprise evident before he schools his features, “You know of the Gods?”

“Hmm,” You reply as you tear a piece of cloth to bandage the now clean wound. “I know of _your_ Gods, but I follow my own.”

“And what do your Gods do?”

You frown at the strange question, but regardless answer honestly, “There’s many Gods, I was…born into the cult of the Gods of the Dead.”

“Born?” He asks, a frown in his own face that speaks of the irreverence of wanting to question your beliefs, but you do not take offense. Being raised by a follower of Freyja does take away the bite of talking about the Gods like they are nothing but tales.

“My mother was a woman of the Gods, and when she was to have me, she had a dream I was to be born in Eleusis, a city tied to the Goddess of Spring. During my naming ceremony, the Elders of the city said I was fated to be her follower.”

“What does the Goddess of Spring have to do with the Dead?”

You relay the same answer you were given as a child, when you were innocent and wide-eyed and in your mind she was only a Goddess of flowers and warmth. That you now know the truth of who Persephone is and who you are to be different is only a detail.

“In my home spring is tied to rebirth. Death and return to life.”

“You hesitated,” He notes, eyes narrowed. You think you catch a silver of genuine curiosity behind his mask, behind the taunts. “What’s the truth?”

Silently damning his blue eyes for the way they see your bones beneath and call out when you fail to be the _Anassa_ your people need, you sigh.

“She lives by two realms; she is Goddess of Spring and Queen of the Dead.” You explain finally, shrugging your shoulders.

“Why not say it, then?”

“She was tricked into becoming the wife of the God of the Dead, many elders in my homeland think it an affront to recognize that title.” You explain, the words leaving a bad taste in your mouth. You take a sip from the cup of milk by your table to dispel it.

“But do _you_ believe that?” The King asks, no tease or mirth on his voice. You are surprised, stunned into silence, and it may show in your expression, for he adds, “Answer me.”

“I…no, I don’t see it as an insult. When I was…when I was the Priestess in charge of rituals, I honored her descent as much as her rising. It was…frowned upon by the others.”

“Well, lucky for you, they are probably all dead now.” The Viking states dryly, but his words still manage to startle a laugh out of you.

You cover your traitorous mouth with your hand, eyes widened and internally chastising yourself for mocking the dead. Still, for a fleeting moment, the small but proud smile he bears at making you laugh makes the guilt lessen.

You lower your eyes to your finished work, even if you still keep your hold on the Viking’s hand. You let your mind drift as you look down, and when you blink yourself into attention, you find your treacherous fingers absently tracing around the edges of the bandage in his palm.

“I saw you,” He says suddenly, and you raise startled eyes to catch sight of his tongue peeking at his lower lip. Leaning even closer, he looks into your eyes like he did on that battlefield, like he can ignore everything and see the chaos underneath your skin, “In the battlefield, I saw you.”

“I know,” You whisper back, enthralled by his eyes that burn like Greek Fire, “Is that why you are here?”

He smiles, lowering his head a bit and looking to the side, a gesture that, if you didn’t know who you were talking to, you would confuse as a display of bashfulness.

But when he returns his gaze to you, you realize you were right. A faint blush covers his sun-kissed cheeks, and you find yourself smiling back, your heart rushing to a fast pace.

“Can you blame me?” He looks down at his now bandaged hand, and you follow his gaze to watch his hand close in a loose fist and open again. “I had to-…”

“To what?” You press when he stops his words, but the King seems to shake himself out of his stupor, and with a small shake of his head he returns more centered eyes to you.

“I have to go soon.” He states, but doesn’t move to leave, and neither do you, even as you reply quietly,

“So do I.”

“What is your name?”

You shake your head with a small laugh, “I don’t give away my name easily, I’m afraid.”

The Viking frowns at your words, affronted and stubborn, “Why not?”

“Would you desist if I asked you to trust a witch’s words?” You ask, although you already know the answer.

Standing up, you smile when you hear his simple response.

“No.”

You walk to the cloak you kept by the door, and turn around to face the King, who still sits closer to the candle light.

“Well, you will have to.”

“But you know who I am, why can’t I know who you are?”

“You know who I am, I am a Priestess of the Attic Greeks. And you are a Viking King from Norway,” You reply quietly, without hesitation. After a few breaths of silence, where your eyes and his meet, you add, “Names complicate things, make them real. And real things are dangerous things.”

There’s a reluctant smile on his lips as he says, “You are a strange woman, Priestess.”

“I have been called worse.” You shrug, taking advantage of the movement to put the thin cloak over your shoulders.

Turning around, you find his head slightly bowed down and his mouth curved in a smile your foolish, foolish heart clings to.

Lifting his gaze to yours again, he nods a goodbye, “Priestess.“

You return the gesture, a smile of your own, “Viking.”

____

The Varangians granted Stithulf permission to take his dead within the walls to perform the proper rites, and for once you choose not to question your luck.

Pointed to an area near the walls, you walk to the piles of corpses, and you feel something within you break at the sight. It is not the lifeless bodies being thrown like animals in a heap, nor the smell of rust and death, or the lifeless eyes still looking up at the Gods for salvation.

It’s the blood.

The blood that still flows, albeit sluggishly, viscously. The blood that taints the ground with pain and death. The blood that coats your hands, even if you have not yet touched a single body.

When your stomach turns and you stumble to a stop, emptying your guts on the cold ground that silently weeps with the blood of your people, you can only hope Vikings and Saxons alike confuse your tears of pain with tears of weakness of a priestess sick with the sight of blood, and not a woman witness of the death of her people.

Because even if your heart refuses to believe so, there’s countless Greeks forgotten in some field somewhere, ambushed and assaulted for the choices you made, for the mistakes you made. And they won’t ever have the drachmas pressed in their eyes or hands so that they may cross to the Underworld, they won’t have even a handful of dirt covering their body so that the Dread Lord may welcome them in his home.

“ _Move them, take them away from the Christians,”_ You motion for one of the meek girls that in another life would have become a Hiereia like you. “ _I’ll sooner bite into the fruit of the dead before I let my people’s bodies rest alongside Christians’._ ”

A couple of Greeks are assisting in the funeral rites of the Greeks that perished, and as you oversee their work, you catch sight of Leofric, Stithulf’s trusted man, looking at you with nothing short of disgust in his eyes.

You try to hold his gaze, but the strange shine in his eyes makes you uncomfortable, like an invisible hand runs over your skin, and you lower your eyes, feeling shame choke you.

It is late in the evening when you are done with the rites, and you sit before a hearth tending and storing dried lavender.

“You heard what Stithulf did to the survivors.” Sieghild states, not even a question as she takes a seat next to you.

You nod, wondering faintly how a gesture so simple is supposed to explain it all. Your failures, your hopes, your guilt, your pain.

“It wasn’t Stithulf’s axe still embedded in Alexios’ skull, mother.” You point out, because anger is easier than pain, because wrath is easier than grief. Your eyes go to your mother and the sight of the pendant with the Troll Cross etched on it makes your chest tighten.

“Don’t dismiss what the presence of the sons of Ragnar does for you here,” She corrects bluntly, the rough edge of the shieldmaiden that waded through pain and blood to survive, “Leofric had every intent of forcing your hand and making you bury them like Christians,” Her lip curls in disgust at the word, “But they fear them more than the wrath of their God, it seems.”

You allow yourself a small snort of what once would have been laughter, ignoring the silver of stupid curiosity and carelessness that makes you wish you could talk to the Viking again.

Instead of voicing such thoughts, you return your mind and your soul to the battle that passed, and asked what has plagued you for days now,

“Have they found Narses?”

“…No.”

_“He loves you,” Sieghild states as she passes you the bowl of stew. You take a deep breath and pointedly look down, as if you search for answers in the flavored water. “I would kill that boy if I had a chance, but…he does believe in you, he does love you.”_

_“I know.” You offer weakly, biting down shame and regret._

_“And he clings to every word that leaves your lips, little one. You know this too.”_

_After a deep breath, you feel brave enough to meet her green eyes, “I_ know _how to fight Slavs, mother. Better than any Athenian I know how the raiders wage their wars.”_

_“And why not speak out, little one?”_

_“They won’t listen to me.”_

_“But Narses…” She leaves the words hanging between you, and you swallow thickly._

_“They listen to him.”_

_“And you make him listen to you, promising love in return for subservience,” She finishes darkly. After a breath, the Varangian sighs, “This will only bring forth pain, little one.”_

_“The death of my people would bring a greater pain than a lie.”_

And now you have witnessed both the death of your people and the end of your lie. The bonds of marriage and the bonds of lineage are cut and lay broken on the same place the last of the Attics have found their end.

“I never deserved to be their _Anassa_.” You croak out instead with a frail smile that is more of a grimace, unable to keep your eyes away from the fire, even if they burn with tears and light.

“Did you ever want to be?” The shieldmaiden scoffs, but after a few moments of silence her gruffness gives way for a compassionate hand on your knee. Her voice is quiet, her face turned to yours even if you still face ahead with guilt and shame, as she speaks, “Past deserving, past your legacy, past their hopes…do you _want_ to be their queen, little one?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does,” She promises with the certainty of a woman with four decades on this earth, and yet with the comfort of the strange warrior that taught you to heal your own scrapes and bruises, and the steel of the shieldmaiden that traveled the world with nothing but faith in her Gods and herself. Her hand is rough when it cups your cheek, turning you to face her, “Do you want to be their _Anassa_?”

You offer your mother a small, sad, and ashamed smile, “I don’t know.”

“You do know, but…maybe you are not ready to make that choice.”

“For once, mother, I would love it if you gave me answers instead of more questions.” You grumble, hiding your face in your arms. You hear Sieghild laugh, warm and hearty as always, and you cannot keep the smile from your lips.

“I don’t have any answers, little one. I have been alive for quite a while, but there’s some things that are…at the hands of the Gods,” She remains silent for a while, and it is only after a small thoughtful hum leaves her lips that the shieldmaiden speaks again, “I will find some answers.”

“What are you talking about?”

You lift your head to face her, and find the familiar roots of Yggdrasil on her face and the determined green eyes of the woman that raised you.

“Nothing yet. But I will find answers soon, I…have some questions of my own.”

____

The next day you watch silently as the Varangians are once again brought to talk with Stithulf. You wonder what they are asking for, either of them, that makes this possible. Scarcely have you heard of Saxons and Vikings cooperating, it would be as strange as having Byzantines and Arabs discussing around a table.

Then again, you never heard of Greeks finding death on Scandinavia, so maybe Galla was right and the Gods are somewhere laughing at all this chaos.

A Greek spy takes a seat at your side on the outside of the small hut you have been…caged in for the majority of your time. The woman is not older than Sieghild, but carries the weight of years. Or maybe of loss, who knows.

“The Varangians make these Christians uncomfortable.”

“Considering the only reason we are here is because the Christians want revenge on the sons of Ragnar, I am not surprised,” You tell her, and after a moment of consideration, add, “When the Varangians take their leave back to Dublin, do you know if they will do so by sea or land?”

“My time as a spy is long over.”

You hear the meaning behind her words. With Galla dead, who worked as the leader of your spies and scouts, there’s not much guidance for her people to go on.

The absence of Galla weighs heavy on your heart, even heavier than Narses’. She was the most cunning and intelligent woman you have ever met, your friend, your confidante, your trusted advisor. She was at your side for so long that not seeing her form approaching from the shadows, not having her dark eyes meeting yours with a silent meaning in them, not hearing her laugh as she startles you after approaching quietly; it feels like an empty space growing somewhere within you.

With her in mind, you recall, “Someone I once knew told me once our eyes grow used to shadows, we cannot ignore their lure.”

You offer her a small smile, that she begrudgingly returns. The woman adjusts in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees and looking ahead at the distant center of the city.

“They will go by sea, Anassa. I have heard plans of having… _ka-tte-gat’_ s navy return to their home soon, but not before stopping in Dublin.”

“Good. I want to take advantage of that,” At the question written in her eyes, you shrug, “I want you to talk to the remaining Greeks, we will leave by land the day the Varangians are to set sail.”

“Why? Where?”

You stand up from your seat, hugging the cloak tighter to your body and prepare to enter your cold and foreign little hut again, giving the brunette spy one last glance,

“My people may die at the hands of Christians, but never under their boot. We will return home, or as close to it as we can get.”

You enter your rooms and it is then that the pretend fortitude, the certainty you do not have, the failure and the hope, they all curl around your body like starving snakes, pressing the air out of your lungs and making you falter.

Your fingers close around the amulet your mother left for you. A gift from your father to her. The symbols in the back of it are familiar letter that bring up a sense of nostalgia in you, engraved in your mind before you even knew how to read them.

_Bend to the Fates, but don’t let them break you._


	4. Chapter 4

“So, Priestess.” You hear behind you, jumping back with a yelp and almost dropping the scroll you held in your hands.

You turn around to find the Viking King standing by your doorway, leaning heavily on his crutch and looking at you with a small smug smile on his face.

“A gentleman would knock.” You say around a small smile of your own, and leave the rolled-up map on a nearby end table before motioning for a chair and sitting in one nearby. It shouldn’t be so easy, so familiar, letting him into your space.

“You should know better.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” You confess without hesitation, looking into his pale eyes that reflect the stubborn light of the candles in the room around you.

“I have nothing but my brother and Christians to talk to in this city,” He dismisses easily, a gesture of his hand as he takes a seat near you. Your eyes, curious, follow the agile movements of his left hand as he maneuvers the crutch on his side to rest nearby. “You are far better company.”

“Thank you, I think,” You say, biting your lip to keep your stupid mouth from smiling and the foolish bashfulness from showing on your expression. Apparently, it does regardless, judging by the pleased look on the Viking’s face. Clearing your throat, you steal a glance to the closed door and state, “You do know you are scandalizing half a city right now, don’t you?”

“I am?” Based on his smug look, he knows, but you speak anyways.

“I am already called a witch,” You explain, “Do you know what it will do to my reputation if they are to see a _Viking_ enter my home?”

“And you care for your reputation?”

“Any lady would care about her reputation!” You pretend to be scandalized, before rolling your eyes at yourself. You delight yourself in the small huff that leaves the man’s lips, what could be a laugh if given just enough room to breathe.

“The Saxons,” He starts, leaning the side of his body on the table, “You said they call you a witch.”

“A woman that worships the Gods of the Dead is usually labeled such a thing,” You offer with a small shrug. After a breath of hesitation, you dare tease, “Are you one to believe Stithulf’s tales that I can bewitch men to their deaths? Blind them and have them follow my every whim?”

He keeps pale eyes on you, studying you quietly for a few moments before rescinding, closing his eyes in a slow blink and murmuring, 

“Not through magic,” Before you have a chance to ask what he means by that, he motions for a place behind you and asks, “What is that?”

You twist on your seat to where he points and see he means the scroll you…borrowed from Leofric. Stretching on your seat, you grab onto the old paper and open it on the table.

The colors are faded, and to what you understand is not very accurate, but you have been growing restless here and you wanted to at least learn something other than defeat here.

“What do you need a map for?” The Viking frowns, rough fingers placed over the edges of the map you cannot hold and helping you smooth it over the table.

You know if he were to think of you as a Greek Anassa before anything else, he would be on his guard about you by now, because after all, it is a foreign leader looking to know the outline of his homeland. But he isn’t.

Because that’s what you agreed upon, right? No names and no identities past this door, no future or present outside of this disgusting little hut. But your people need to leave this village, they need to be away from Stithulf’s ambitious hands, from Leofric’s egotistical God.

Stealing a hand back to put a lock of hair behind your ear, you offer, “Knowing where on this earth the Gods have taken us?” You grimace at your own words. _As if the Gods would want this._ Regardless, you swallow past the bitterness of the soft lie and continue explaining, “I…don’t know where I am. I mean, I know there’s no point in knowing, but I don’t…”

He silences you with a point of his finger, eyes inquisitive and always demanding when they look over your face but still quiet, offering you the location and name of the city with a point of his finger.

Your eyes look over the seas and rivers drawn there, and even if it all feels so fucking foreign and strange and unforgiving, at least knowing where in this world the last of the Attics have perished, what hills and what rivers bury their unfortunate bodies; brings you a little peace.

For a moment there’s a flare of a thought, an errant idea, of how maybe, just _maybe_ , this strange man turned King, in all his faults and fame; could be easily played with. You lured a Greek Strategus into laying an army at your feet, surely you could get something out of the Viking before your life reached its untimely end.

The few Attics that have survived the hell of these last weeks could benefit from whatever aid you can get the King to-…

 _No_.

You shake those thoughts off quickly enough. You have regretted your lies before, you have promise to be honest and be true because you cannot stomach the mere possibility that one day you will look at your reflection and not recognize who you are past all the lies and the masks.

So, you look into the Varangian’s pale blue eyes, and offer sincerely, “Thank you.”

He ignores your words, you don’t know whether because he has no interest in your gratitude or because he does not know how to answer to it.

Instead, he asks, “How do you know how to read a map?”

“You ask me that and not how I speak your language? Or know of your Gods?” You reply, eyebrows raised. The Viking shrugs, conceding, but his eyes remain with the same inquisitive glint, demanding his answers. With a sigh, you offer, “There’s…Varangians where I am from. When my mother was killed, what you call a shieldmaiden took me in and raised me as her own.”

“What was her name?”

“Is,” You correct with a small frown, “Sieghild is very much alive.”

“Would I know of her?” He asks, and you narrow your eyes at him. The Viking explains, “A shieldmaiden that lived all the way in the Mediterranean, surely she has her own share of fame.”

“That’s her story to tell, not mine.”

And the candles burn on, and you two continue talking about whatever comes to mind. You don’t ask about what happens in this city, he doesn’t ask -much- about what brought you and your people here. He doesn’t ask your name again, and you make a point of avoiding saying his.

Somehow, you made the mistake of telling him about Keres, and their fame as angels of violent deaths that scour the battlefields; and now the Viking won’t stop insisting that they are just Valkyries with different names.

“But you know of the Valkyries.” He insists, a frown in his brow and his nose.

“I do.”

“Then why do you call them with a different name?”

“Keres are not Valkyries.”

“They sound very alike, Priestess,” His mouth curves downwards in an exaggerated gesture and he shrugs his shoulders. “It sounds to me that you Greeks just like changing the names of things.”

Even if you should be offended all you do is smile, “What?”

“ _Barangoi_ ,” He offers, a tilt of his head. “You could just say Viking.”

“And you could just say Keres instead of Valkyries.”

“Ah!” He points a finger at you, “So you admit they are one and the same.”

“I don’t follow your Gods, _Barangoi_ ,” You remind him, but he just tilts his head to the side and looks away. Before you can help yourself, you point out, “Your Greek is horrible, by the way.”

“Well, I haven’t had time to find a teacher.”

____

“I will leave this sad excuse for a city, just for a few days,” Sieghild promises that night, her eyes on the fire but you can see her soul reaching for her shield.

“Do you think it is safe?”

“Who should I fear? The few Saxons smart enough to train like Arabs? The last remnants of the once mighty Great Heathen Army?” She scoffs, her words intending to dismiss your fear even if she has just listed the reasons you worry for her life when she leaves.

“Neither would have any qualms about killing you.” You point out dryly.

The shieldmaiden rolls her shoulders, something akin to bloodthirst in her smile, “Let them try.”

“And I’m the foolish one.” You mutter around a roll of your eyes.

The woman chuckles quietly, “I told you I have some questions I need answered. You are not the only one with ties to the Gods, little one.”

“Never said that I was. Based on your tales, the sons of one of the most famous Völvas are at the gates, mother.” You quip dryly, reaching for the goblet of water and wishing you could call upon the Christian God and turn it into wine.

“The gates, little one?” Sieghild muses, and you frown at her in confusion over the rim of your cup. With a shrug, she explains, “I have seen a son of Aslaug going in and out of your little hut multiple times now.”

 _Shit. You_ cough abruptly when the water goes the wrong way, but play it off and look again at the flames.

“I have no idea who you are talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” She teases, a strange weight in her voice. She stands up, reaching for her trusted shield and putting it at her back as she grabs one of the fur cloaks by you. You keep your eyes ahead, but feel her presence at your back, and hear her lighthearted voice, “Sometimes, I sit by myself and think how your mother must be screaming her head off at me from her Elysium.”

You laugh, and it feels light and free, craning your head back to look at the shieldmaiden. She places a heavy hand on your hair, rough fingers attempting to run through it; the gesture so reminiscent of your childhood.

“Why?”

“She had this beautiful little girl, blessed by the Gods, noble in blood and in heart,” She recalls, “And I turned that child into the mad woman that likes spending her evenings with Ivar the Boneless.”

You shake your head at her words, closing your eyes and resting the back of your head on her stomach.

“Of all the things I have done, you truly believe talking to a Varangian King would be what my mother would take issue with?” You ask her, and the shieldmaiden grumbles an agreement, remaining silent for a short while.

“I will be back soon. Be careful, yes?” You nod. Sieghild traces around the wound in your forehead and sighs, “Your Gods and mine keep you, little one.”

“Your Gods and mine, mother.” You answer with a small smile, the exchange as old as goodbye.

She leaves you to your thoughts with a firm kiss pressed to the crown of your head, and you stay there, by the fire, wondering what will happen when the Varangians leave.

But turns out you don’t have to think much about what will happen when the Vikings collect their prizes, when the Saxons retreat back to England, when you will be left with three hundred Greeks and nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait for death; for the talks are exceedingly long, and almost a week has passed and still the Vikings make camp in this city, still Stithulf meets with Varangians daily, still the Viking King makes his way with his crutch and his uneven steps to your door.

The King himself is a vexing contradiction. Cruel, arrogant, and explosive; like seldom you have seen, even if most of the time his vitriol is not directed at you. Yet dedicated, intelligent, and, at least sometimes, hinting at someone that wants to give but does not know how to.

He manages to make you despise him as easily as he makes you admire him, hate presence in your mind and find yourself missing his voice or his expressive eyes when he’s not there.

You were never one to bite your tongue, and even if pain clogs your throat your memories leave your lips with ease, but Ivar…Ivar gives pieces of himself away like crumbs that fall from his so tightly-clasped hands. It is as if he couldn’t stop himself from giving away those little pieces, but at the same time dismisses the truths and cracks in the armor as soon as you make a slight mention of them.

He tells you about his mother, of her love and because happiness cannot be remembered without the biting sting of pain, of her absence. He tells you of his vow to kill his mother’s killer, and the look in his Greek Fire-like eyes when he does gives you a more certain prophecy than the Gods’ at to what destiny holds for the shieldmaiden. He tells you of the boatbuilder, of the man that did so much to make him who he is today, and if nostalgia paints the tales he weaves you say nothing.

Ivar now knows a lot about you as well, because when you meet daily with a stubborn man with no restrictions in his questions, you are bound to give away a lot of yourself. You tell him about the Christians of Attica, of their flames lapping at your legs and back, and if he understands a little more of your darkness then so be it. You tell him of Sieghild and her ways, of years at her side, of being taught how to wage and stop war, of her tales of this land so far away from where you were it seemed like a different realm. You tell him of life under the sigil of Persephone, you tell him secrets you have not dared tell a soul before, of the woman in the red veil and her warm darkness.

When you see him wince for the third time since he has sat down today, and hear the barely-there grunt of pain, you hope he doesn’t take this as offense -your times near Kiev when you were growing up reminds you strikingly of how particular Varangians are when it comes to pain- and reach for a marked leather pouch in one of your bags.

Grabbing onto a reasonable piece of willow bark, you turn back to the Viking and extend your hand. His eyes go from your hand to your face, but surprisingly enough you are not that bothered by the cold distrust as you thought you should be.

“Chewing on it helps with pain.” Is all you tell him in answer to his silent question.

He takes it with the mistrust, the annoyed hesitation, that are in such a way _his_ that you fear you would never be able to see the somewhat-narrowed eyes, the movement of the head, the piercing glare, without thinking of him any longer.

It takes a moment, and an exasperated lift of your eyebrows for the warrior to finally bite into the softened bark. After a moment, because of course he would, the Viking asks, “How did you know?”

“I have to be attuned to others’ pain to be a healer, Viking,” You answer simply, settling back in your seat and draping the cloak over your legs. “You have healers where you are from.”

“Usually they are Völur.”

You shake your head with a small chuckle, “I am not a seeress.”

“But your Gods speak to you.”

You frown, “Scarcely of the future. The sight I have is regarding…the past, or sometimes present. Related to death, as per my Gods’ realm.”

In all his stubbornness, there’s a hint of fearlessness, more than a hint of courage; that almost whisper to you what he will ask for way before the words are to leave his lips.

The Viking stands up with a small grimace, and leaning on his crutch stands before you, “Prove it.”

“Are you certain?” You ask, again already aware of the answer he will give. When he nods, you take a deep breath and toe off your simple sandals. If the Viking takes note of the strange choice to have your bare feet on the cold ground, he does not mention it.

You stand as well, for a moment feeling Eleusis’ warm grasslands underneath your feet instead of the cold wood of a Scandinavian home, and face the Viking.

He holds himself still, so much so that you may for a moment confuse him with a marble statue. One that you can choose to admire or to break with a single push.

With the closeness, looking up at the cruel and handsome visage of Kattegat’s King, you realize what the pull of darkness you noticed surrounding him when you first saw him was.

Past the bloodthirst, past the cruelty and the vitriol; you catch a glimpse of something else.

A whisper not unlike the one that so long ago, when Sieghild offered to take you to the Danes, told you to await a few days in Sicily. That same night the news on the Saracen warriors threatening Athens with an onslaught of raids reached your ears, and instead of sailing North you returned to Greece.

Your eyes meet his, and a strange familiarity reaches you like a memory, like the phantom caress of a worn piece of silk over cold skin.

“You died, not long ago. You crossed into the realm of death and came back, and not only then, even in the womb the Gods debated your survival. _Chosen by Hades._ ” The last words leave your lips in Greek, realization settling within you as you speak. You force your tongue back to his language when you continue, “You survived all those times because the Gods were not done with you and you know this, but you are not certain what the purpose they spared your life for is.

Without thinking, you move even closer, your head tilted back to stare at his pale eyes.

Your voice is a whisper in itself when you promise, “Your Gods have heard you beg to know the reason behind your pain, Ivar.”

There’s a flare of anger in his eyes, a snarl forming in his lips and they are the only warnings you have before the Viking’s hand closes around your throat.

You are dragged closer, rough fingers clawing at your neck and you cannot keep your mouth from opening in a gasp, your hand uselessly tugging at the King’s arm.

But you can still breathe, you notice past your panicked breaths. You feel your mouth dry, your heart quicken, but you do not fight back, even if your scared mind begs you to.

_“Sieghild.” You whisper. You are not certain why you speak so lowly, but something tells you that you should._

_The woman turns to you, and when her footsteps stop as she realizes what you wanted her to see, it seems the whole forest freezes. The wind doesn’t rustle the leaves, the birds do not sing, the distant stream stops its course._

_It all seems to hold its breath alongside you, waiting for the injured beast’s move._

_“Do not move,” Sieghild advises, “Do not cower or it will attack.”_

_You tighten your hand around the bow and stare back at the lynx’s wild eyes with a courage you do not have._

When the King leans even closer, you feel like a young girl holding a bow and praying the beast does not attack. Praying it mistakes your relentlessness with ruthlessness, and thinks twice about harming you.

“You will keep your visions to yourself, Priestess.”

And it’s the arrogance, the pride, the _command_ , what gets the blood under your skin to a boil. You may not be able to overpower him, but the very Underworld may welcome you home before you bow down to a brute.

Your hand finds his wrist, nails digging lightly at the skin as you meet his gaze with the defiance not even the constricting rules of Attica could extinguish.

You reply to his threat with narrowed eyes. “You will get your hand off me, Viking.”

Surprisingly enough, he does, but keeps his burning eyes on yours and still towers above you.

“You asked.” You remind him. Because you have to swallow down other words, other reminders. _You obeyed._

“How are you so sure it’s not the Norns telling you this? How does this not make you a Völva?” He asks, and past the venom and the volatility there’s a genuine question, you like to think.

“Maybe they are, maybe both our Gods are one and the same, but take different names,” You offer, “But I am not one of your seeresses, Viking. I am Hiereia.”


	5. Chapter 5

You awaken in the middle of the night as Sieghild barges into the room you sleep in, and without warning her arm, muscled and inked, locks around your waist and she drags you out of the building and towards a small tunnel that leads you both past the walls and near the woods.

She keeps dragging you, ignoring your threats and the kicks you deliver without much strength to them. The way she moves between the trees with such certainty, the way her steps are measured and fast as they step over the frozen ground never ceases to amaze you.

She throws your body with surprising strength against a nearby tree on the first clearing she finds, making you dizzy as your head hits the trunk.

“Ah! W-What are you doing!?” You grunt, but Sieghild doesn’t answer, green eyes set on her task as she brushes your hair away from your face and cups your head in her hands.

“Quiet. There’s worlds past our own.” She advises, and with quickened breaths you rake your eyes over the suffocating trees around you and, in the distance but somehow _close enough_ , you see the faint lights of the Varangian encampment.

Your eyes return to your mother, and before your lips can form the words, the questions, you remember.

_“There’s worlds past our own,” Aamir says, dark eyes, black eyes, set on the fire. “And there’s worlds in between.”_

_You steal a quick glance to the shieldmaiden, but she keeps her gaze ahead, even if the small quirk of her lip tells you she notices your stare of confusion and mirth._

_“In between.” You repeat, and the man turns wise eyes to you. The confusion, the scorn, fade within you into curiosity, into that same madness that made you cross the Aegean on an old fishing boat._

_“Between the dead and the living,” He explains without hesitation, “Between this life and the next.”_

_“They sound lonely.” Someone quips, but the man smiles, shaking his head slightly._

_“They are filled with opportunity. Life or death, past or future,” His almost black eyes set on you, and your breath catches in your throat, “nostalgia or hope.”_

And in her green eyes you see the choice shining. The question, the test, the goodbye and the welcome home.

“I’m staying with the Greeks.” You whisper, feeling as if you have sealed your own fate without knowing what the Gods have in store for you. Feeling as if Sieghild does know, but cannot tell you.

Looking down at you, she smiles through the pain of loss and the tiredness of war.

She looks firmly into your eyes and whispers, “And so it is fated you do so.”

“I can’t help but feel both our Gods have looked away, mother.”

But she shakes her head, the twin braids on each side of her head flowing with the movement. Her gaze is electric, and there could be a sad smile playing at her lips.

“I have asked Freyja for guidance, for help, ever since we arrived in Scandinavia. She has answered, but not in the way your Mistress would.”

Sieghild leans forward and presses a kiss on your forehead. You have a feeling she is saying goodbye in more ways than one, and tears clog at your throat.

“What are you saying?”

She ignores your question, expression determined and fierce, “I hope I have grasped the meaning behind the Seer’s words, my child. I hope so with all I am.”

Nothing makes sense, and there’s…there’s tendrils of a voice you cannot quite catch of a meaning you cannot quite understand, and you are suddenly a child again, listening to the strange woman speak in tongues you feel are familiar and yet foreign; you cannot…you cannot…nothing makes sense.

“What seer?”

But she shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter anymore,” She presses her forehead to yours, and your eyes fall closed, “I will not be here come morning, _minn dóttir_.”

A small part of you feared this would happen, feared that when Sieghild could taste back the spirit of her people, could hear again the war drums of the Vikings; she would choose to stay with them.

And you cannot blame her. If you found yourself surrounded by foreign customes and foreign people, even if you loved some of those people, even if you had grown to know and follow those strange customs…if you were to find yourself back in Greece, you are certain no love and no familiarity could keep you from those lands that made both your blood and your spirit.

Sieghild brings you into a one-armed embrace, and you feel her chin over your head. Still, a small sob leaves your lips, both at the caving feeling of being left alone and at the pain that lacers her voice. You lost Narses, Galla and the rest of your people are dead because of you, and now you will lose her too.

She is all you have had, since you were a child. Since you have memory, her matted red hair, her comforting green eyes, her brutishly gentle nature, her inked skin; they have been your home, your family.

Sieghild finally pulls back from the somewhat embrace, and even if it feels like ages it is only a few fleeting moments where you meet her gaze and look back at her with tears in your eyes and shaking in fear, a child all over again.

Her fingers trace your cheek with motherly affection, “Make the ground where you are defeated become the realm where you will conquer, child.”

“Sieghild?”

She traces a symbol in your hand with her own fingers, you think a rune, but you only have eyes for her face, her motherly smile, her kind eyes, her marked skin.

“Survive. Until spring comes.”

She darts for the woods, leaving you weak and worn against the tree trunk. Bringing your knees up against your chest, feeling the taint of blood of your own and those not still on your hands even after you have rubbed them raw, you hide your face in your arms and let the cries leave your chest.

Sieghild is long gone, Narses is dead, your people are nothing but corpses on some faraway field, the city is afar. There’s no one to see you, no one to hear you.

And if no one hears you cry, you can pretend you were brave.

_____

“We have reached our agreement, and in time I will pay that debt,” Stithulf comments as you approach. If he notices the inquisitive glare you send his way as to why he is telling you this, he ignores it. “However, we also arranged for a payment in exchange for that Viking warlord accepting the possibility of negotiations, and I have to pay it now.”

“What is it?” You whisper, brow furrowed.

The scarred Christian motions with one hand, and before you can react there’s two soldiers at your sides, holding onto your upper arms and with ease holding you immobile. Stithulf approaches, taking advantage of your stunned body that cannot seem to react quick enough, and he sets heavy and burning shackles at your wrists.

“What are you doing?” You hiss at the black-haired Saxon, but he only raises his face high. “You cannot-…”

The sound of the chains moving as they exchange hands hurts your ears, like the shrill screams of a Priestess being burnt to death.

You remember rough and violent hands wrapped around your wrists, your arms, your throat; keeping you defenseless, keeping you from fighting back. You remember tight rope burning your wrists as you were tied and dragged to the pole where you would be set alight.

You have been beaten, you have been defeated, exiled, humiliated, betrayed.

But you never had chains put on you. Chains are…are for prisoners, chains are for slaves, chains are meant for people without _freedom_. You have killed and died for your freedom, you cannot…you cannot lose it now.

Narses, Galla, so many others are dead. Your home is no more. Sieghild has left you behind.

You cannot lose your freedom; it is the only thing you have left.

You look down into trembling hands and bite down a scream of your own.

Chains.

You have lost it already.

The soldiers at your flanks force you to move towards wherever the Saxon is walking, and the _chains_ make you obey their command.

“You forced my hand, Greek,” He promises, pretending that regret pours out of his lips, “You were part of the price asked, and I had no reasons for wanting to keep you.”

But you still shake your head, tugging frantically at chains that follow your movements and chase after your wrists like hungry snakes. And you cannot get out, you cannot get free, you cannot…you cannot…

“Wh-…no, you can’t do this. Why…why!?” You cry out, not caring how your voice trembles and breaks. The chains are heavy, and so is your breath, “Release me, I am not yours to give away!”

The Saxon moves quickly, a thunder of rage and underserving authority, and the backhand across your face is painful but expected. Leave it to a man like him to hit you when you are bound.

Stithulf forces you to straighten yourself from the hit by grabbing painfully onto your jaw and turning furious eyes to him.

“I will not have you challenge me in front of those Vikings. You will keep your mouth closed for once.” The Saxon grits out, his grip on your jaw brutish and hurting.

You grit your teeth, but still bite out, “With a Christian keeping me chained, there’s not much I can say or do, Stithulf. You know this.”

Your body almost braces for another hit, but Stithulf only laughs to himself. Laughs, and you cannot help but open your eyes to find him, head bowed, eyes closed, chuckling like you have amused him, like you are an old friend joking with him.

“Oh, how I will miss you, Greek.”

You lick the cut his hit gave your lip, and return your eyes ahead as they warriors make you start walking. They lead you to the docks, and you catch sight of other slaves being boarded into the Varangian ships.

You are the only one in chains, though, and the burn of humiliation hurts as much as that of defeat.

Beady eyes you know well catch sight of you, and Leofric, one of Stithulf’s trusted men, one of the pigs responsible for Narses’ sacrifice, for the slaughter of your people; approaches you with a sleazy smile on his weathered face.

“Witch.” He greets, his voice dripping with arrogance and satisfaction. You don’t answer, but he does replace one of the soldiers at your side, his hand on your upper arm disgusting and invasive.

Two Varangian men wait for you and Stithulf to approach, one of them the King, standing tall and proud as he looks over you.

It shouldn’t sting like betrayal that he wants to make a slave out of you, it truly shouldn’t. But…it does, because you are foolish, you always have been. You truly thought he was honest when he talked with you, you truly thought he saw an equal and not a witch to pride himself in conquering.

But no, what was it Sieghild told you when she spoke of Rorik and what happened before the Varangians took Kiev?

_“Never trust a man to choose you over anything, much less a man in power to choose you over the illusion of holding onto such power.”_

“She is a pagan witch, but she has noble blood,” Leofric states without prompting, ignoring your glare. You feel the eyes of the Varangian on you, but you keep your enraged focus on the man that lists off qualities like you are a mare being sold for breeding. “The Greeks call her Queen, and she is worth quite a lot to more than one Kingdom in the Mediterranean.

Leofric’s hand finds your throat, and your entire body coils as your lips part and a bubble of panic starts on your chest.

“And a good lay, even.” He sneers by your ear, giddy with the power he now holds. Narses is dead, and Stithulf has no use for you; your protections in this land are long gone, and he believes he can do as he wishes with you.

Better men have tried.

Stithulf steals a glance to you, an almost challenge for you to speak up written in his eyes. You keep your gaze on his and let your lips curve into the beginning of a smile, because even if you know it is a lie you feel anything but the desire to squirm out of your own skin, you will be dead before giving it away.

His eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing as he passes on the chains to the Varangians like who offers the leash of a dog, and at the reminder of the chains binding you, the pressure in your lungs is almost the same as that of those first weeks after you survived the pyre those Christians built.

It is only then, with more than iron chains in his hand, that Ivar the Boneless takes his pales eyes to meet your own.

He smiles, terrifyingly and hungrily, and a shiver runs down your spine. Your mocking smile drops as dread settles over your very bones, but you refuse to lower your gaze.

The tug he gives to your chains to bring you closer is as humiliating as before, but you have to follow the commands of the shackles in your wrists, and you stumble a few steps until you stand by him.

“Priestess.” He greets lowly, and your nose furrows.

“Viking,” You hiss back, because of course you wouldn’t keep your mouth shut. You lift your hands bound by heavy metal between you, “I spent too long a Christian’s attack dog, I refuse to die a Varangian’s prisoner.”

He chuckles, cruel and every bit the King you tried not seeing him as. Ivar the Boneless.

“You think you have a choice.” He mocks with a disgustingly fake smile on his lips.

You still lean closer, “You better than any man here knows what I have done to keep myself from being a prisoner.”

It staggers you how easy it is to bring a strange softness to his gaze, so much so that you believe him to be fooling you for a moment before he speaks. 

“I don’t want to make a prisoner out of you.” He promises without hesitation, without _shame_. And your anger returns, pushing back the curiosity, the foolish hope, the weakness.

“Then why am I chained?”

“Was there any other way to get you to do as I say?” The King replies easily, the mocking smile once again on his lips.

Regardless, he loosens his hold on the humiliating leash, and your eyes are drawn to his hand. You catch sight of the now dirtied and bloodied bandage around the hand he injured yesterday, and are reminded of the knife you saw him pull out of some secret sheath in his armor.

And if the same guile that made Narses lay an army at your feet is the same that tries keeping Ivar the Boneless from reacting when you put chained hands over his armored chest, no one can blame you.

Women are taught to play these games. The more binds they put on you, the more tricks you learn.

“But you didn’t try any other way,” You argue quietly, looking into his eyes, and even if your closeness, your caress, are lies, your next words are not, “I thought I could trust you.”

The King does not react, body almost frozen but still challenging and calculating as he gazes down at you. His chest rises and falls under your hand and you take a breath and lean even closer.

It would be easy, you ponder, grabbing the knife and attempting on his life, futile attempt as it would be. You could cut your own throat, they couldn’t stop you, and you wouldn’t have to live to see the day a Varangian makes you his slave.

But that would be too easy. Hushed teachings of strength and composure travel from your memories, your mother’s voice and Sieghild’s mixing together in a choir.

You muster a quick prayer of protection and strength in your mind before you go through with your stupid, stupid, _stupid_ idea.

Gritting your teeth and trying to ignore the tremble of your hand as it finds purchase in your target, you wrap careful fingers around the knife you saw sheathed at his ribs, grabbing a hold of it.

You can see in the barely-there widening of the Viking’s eyes, on the sharp breath and the tension coiled around his shoulders that he knows what weapon you hold in your hand now.

He doesn’t move, the only change you notice along with his breath is the slight adjusting of his grip on the crutch. Your eyes dart to his hand and back up into his own, and a challenge shines in them, a curiosity and something else, something darker and stranger that you cannot help but find alluring.

He is challenging you to put that knife to use.

_I did promise that while a Christian held me in chains I wouldn’t act._

You turn around with a small smile, feral as it is, on your lips. The chains stop you from doing any real damage, but a deep enough gash runs down Stithulf’s face, and that is enough for you, even if it means your death. The wound over the Saxon’s eye pours blood, and you allow yourself a laugh.

“ _I will crawl out of the Underworld if I have to, but I will find you again. And I will send you to Lord Hades bearing the mark of my sacrifice. Let the dead know who you have wronged, let the Furies torment you until I have my chance to.”_ You snarl in Greek, eyes set firmly, manically even, on the commander.

A mark of blood, a vow to the Gods. You know you will kill him, and as you look into his eye you think he knows it too, even if he didn’t understand a word you said.

The chains yank again, painful against your sore wrists, and you comply. Dropping the knife to the ground in front of the Varangians, you try quietening the deafening beat of your own heart in your ears.

Stithulf keeps his good eye on you, enraged but oddly enough not surprised. Maybe you were wrong, he wasn’t stupid enough to believe Narses’ words about your meekness and your obedience.

The sudden tension not much unlike the stillness before the beast pounds takes over the dock as the warriors, their attention drawn in by the commotion, wait with baited breath for the next action. Both Saxons and Vikings stand in waiting for any movement.

The man with the blondish braid that was standing behind a few steps is the first one to break the silence, walking towards you with ease and bending down to pick up the knife.

He just…laughs.

The man just laughs, and it is in startled silence that you are tugged back by your chains to the King’s side. The man’s warm eyes travel between you, still in chains, and the now bloodied Saxon holding a hand over his eye.

“Almost lost an eye to a chained Christian woman,” The man says, looking at Stithulf with a smile on his young face, “That will be a story to tell.”

The Viking looks back at the Saxon leader with knowing clear eyes, expecting the strike back, expecting the fight. He delights, you realize, in taunting the Christian with the retribution he cannot have.

Whatever argument they were bound to have, or whatever vindication Stithulf was to set upon you, is quickly tampered by the humiliation. Good.

You could swear the man that spoke out, as he turns around, looks into your eyes with something akin to understanding for a moment.

Clearing your throat and past the fear and pain, you croak, however broken your attempts at speaking past the knot in your throat may be,

“N-Not…not a Christian. Never.”

The man regards you in silence for a moment or so, before finally acquiescing with a nod.

“I noticed,” He says with a smile, and looking for a moment at the man that holds your chains, the Varangian that spoke to save your hide leans closer, but you do not feel threatened, “I’m Hvitserk.”

You smile, the first genuine one you felt in so long, but you still don’t reply with your own name. He notices, but says nothing as you are led to the boats.

“Sons of Ragnar,” Stithulf speaks out, stopping both the King and Prince on their tracks. “Be certain I’ll kill you.”

“I’m certain you’ll try.” Hvitserk replies with a mock flourish, turning his back to the Saxons.

The Varangians board their ship, and you have no choice to follow, a vindicated sort of defeat guiding your movements.


	6. Chapter 6

Your eyes travel over the ship and its crew without you meaning to, taking in curiously the wooden ship that seems to have two bows instead of one. The sea laps at the worn wood but of course, it holds and breaks the waves with ease as you move further and further away from the city captured by Stithulf and his men.

The salty wind makes a mess of your hair, and you reach up unconsciously to move it out of the way, when the rattling of chains and the weight on your wrists stops you. A bubble of panic, of terror and of impotence starts at your chest, but you shut it down as quickly as you can, refusing to show weakness in front of these Norsemen.

_Narses takes a seat on your side, his rough fingers moving your wind-swept hair out of the way so he can press a kiss on your bare neck in greeting. You smile faintly at him, and put your hand on his thigh with ease, ignoring Galla’s stare._

_“We will be in Sparta in a matter of days,” The girl informs instead of voicing her real thoughts that you see shining in her dark gaze, and you nod. After a breath, she states, “The Laconians won’t take happily to the last of Lysander’s blood marrying a Thebesian.”_

_“I was raised by a Varangian and we just lost the war I decided to start,” You inform her without stopping to think about the pain of defeat, “Do you truly believe the biggest of their concerns is who I’m taking to bed?”_

_“I love you too, dear.” Narses states dryly under his breath, and you turn to him, offering him a smile that he returns with ease, promising he was jesting._

_“My advice, little one?” Sieghild calls out, and you three turn to watch the Varangian approach you from the stern of the trireme. Without waiting for your answer, the redhead continues, “Do not pretend not to have your share of arrogance, of pride. Embrace it, for you are of Spartan blood. Embrace their brutality, their pride, their strength. Show weakness once and you will be like a lamb surrounded by lions.”_

_You look into her green eyes, and something in her words makes you think she speaks from experience._ Rorik _, your mind recalls, and you feel a pang of pain for your mother, but don’t say anything about it._

_“You sound proud of the Laconians, Varangian.” Galla teases around a smile, leaning back on the wooden edge._

_“Nothing on Viking berserkers,” She dismisses without hesitation before turning to you again, “But your blood is that of warriors, little one. And…you are my daughter, I raised you,” She points an inked finger your way, a threat and a caution, “and Viking women don’t raise lambs.”_

“Priestess,” You captor calls out arrogantly, taking your attention away from your memories and your eyes away from the sea. King Ivar sits on a wooden crate by one of the edges of the ship, his hands toying with his crutch as he watches you.

When you lift your eyebrows, he motions for a place at his side, “Come sit with me.”

Sieghild’s horror stories of what Vikings do to prisoners, how they fight, how they kill, return to your mind like passing memories, setting your nerves alight and making your heart pound in your chest. It unnerves you more than unbridled rage, this courtesy.

You stand your ground and spit back, “Thinking I will jump ship?”

The Viking looks at you with a terrifying smile on his face, like he is reminding you of winning a fight you didn’t know you partook in. “You know, I went through a lot of trouble to find you.” He says, fingers near his mouth as his clear eyes roam over your red clad figure.

“Am I to be impressed?” You ask, your own eyes narrowed. You are well aware you are playing with fire, but whatever ought to happen to you will happen regardless of how you act. And granting the Varangian the satisfaction of seeing how scared, how unmoored, how exposed you feel is something you want to avoid.

Instead of holding your gaze, the Viking looks over your shoulder and gestures with a hand.

The sharp edge of a battle axe setting silently at the side of your neck brings you to stiff attention and forces all the breath out your lungs. The warrior that holds it looks ahead, you notice through a side-glace, keeping obedient eyes on his King.

“Ivar, is this really necessary?” The voice of the Viking that saved your skin in Stithulf’s docks breaks the silence. You watch the young man straighten in his place, biting into an apple but keeping his eyes on the King.

“She’s _my_ prize, brother.” King Ivar reminds him, a dangerous edge to his voice that lets loose a new kind of tension in the air.

The two brothers remain still, measuring each other for a few moments, before the Prince sighs and desists, walking away into somewhere in the ship you cannot see.

So this is what you have been reduced to: a spoiled King’s plaything. _Delightful_.

The King turns his attention back to you, and the cold that runs down your spine when you face his pale eyes makes the blade of the axe sitting at your neck nothing but a bonus.

 _Viking women don’t raise lambs_.

You straighten your spine and stare him down, daring him even when you know how dangerous it is to do so. And you could swear the beginning of a smile teases at Ivar’s lips.

In answer to your previous question, as if pretending the interaction with his brother didn’t happen, the King says,

“You are smarter than that,” He dismisses, and the blade leaves its place at the side of your neck silently. Still, you say nothing in response, so he gestures again to the empty space at his side, “Sit.”

You bite your tongue and take the seat, eyeing him coldly and angrily the entire time. This only seems to please him further, and it is infuriating and terrifying.

“Why am I here, King Ivar?” You ask quietly instead of voicing other thoughts, and look into his eyes trying to find any attempt to lie.

“I will explain later,” He says simply, the arrogance of a spoiled child in the gesture of his hand that you grit your teeth at, but say nothing. He looks up at you, his chin turned downwards and if you didn’t know better the gesture would look innocent. The King starts again, “And now you say my name, so I think I should finally know yours.”

You kept your name a secret for a long time, from many a man. Not that it means anything, not that it carries any value anymore. But…it is yours. It is yours to invoke and to know, yours to voice, yours to give away.

Names bind us, names define us; that’s what Attica taught you. Names are dangerous things when one aims to be free, because names chain us. To a family, to a legacy, to an ideal, to a home. To nostalgia.

You didn’t want Ivar knowing your name then, the same way you didn’t want to acknowledge his, because it wouldn’t make you two just…you two. It would make you Daughter of Athens, Heir to Sparta, Anassa of the Attics. It would make him King of Kattegat, Son of Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar the Boneless.

But those hopes of escaping a world of chains and burdens, it was so foolish and childish you feel not only regret but embarrassment at how you almost thought you could trust the man now before you. Those hopes that you could be anything more than a witch, a queen, a betrothed; those hopes escaped you when they put chains on your wrists.

So, you tell him quietly, and ignore the pang of…something in your chest when he tries the foreign syllables in his tongue a few times.

“Now you know all my secrets, King Ivar. Happy?” You ask dryly, looking at him from the corner of your eye as your face turns to the sea.

He hums to himself, clearly not believing you, but stays silent for the time being, and as time trickles down you realize you feel less and less eyes on the two of you. If his fame is to be believed, him taking a prisoner alive is reason of curiosity if not outright disbelief, so you try not to think too much of it.

“You didn’t tell me you were their Queen.” The Viking starts, and you shrug.

“My kingdom is ashes, and my people are dead. I have no interest in being queen over death,” You reply almost mechanically, but then catch yourself and frown his way, “You didn’t tell me you were counting on making me a prisoner, either.”

The anger is clear in his face as he sighs, his head moving slightly with the movement. Angering him shouldn’t delight you the way it does, for it may mean pain and death for you, but the glimpse of something _real_ , something that is because of you, that brings control back to you; is enough and more than worth it.

“You are not a prisoner.” He grits out, but all you do is lift your shackled hands in response.

His gaze holds yours for a few moments, his jaw set tight. But you remain still and trying with all your might that your expression doesn’t betray your fear, your anxiety, your pain.

His loud bark of a name startles you, but you stay still as he motions for the warrior he called up to remove your chains. After a moment of hesitation, the young Viking approaches you, kneeling in front of you and making quick work of the iron bindings.

Soon enough the shackles around your wrists fall to the floor. You refuse to show the relief your sore skin feels at the newfound freedom, instead murmuring a thanks to the warrior as he takes his leave away from the two of you.

Lifting your eyes to the King, you raise your eyebrows at his almost expectant silence, “I am not thanking _you_.”

But he only smiles, and you could swear there’s an edge of hunger in his pale eyes.

____

Apollo’s chariot is almost at the end of its journey when the rattling of chains startles you from restless sleep, the monotonous movement of the ship having lulled you to sleep on a corner of the ship not so subtly guarded by the King like a dog protecting an old bone.

Two chained women who you assume to be slaves given as part of Stithulf’s deal with Ivar turn wide eyes to you as they see you move, huddled together a few feet from you.

Your eyes sweep the area around you and you find no trace of the King, but a glimpse of the man that announced himself as Hvitserk keeping vigilant eyes on you from the distance tells you the King hasn’t let go of this particular bone yet.

Still, you turn to the women.

“Are you injured?” You ask in a poor attempt at their language, and while one of them seems to consider your question for a moment the other grips a necklace at her throat and mutters something to herself. Of course, their cross can protect them from the Mediterranean witch, how could you forget. Gritting your teeth, you look away, unable to avoid the sting of shame and hurt.

Stealing a glance to the Prince that lingers with his watchful gaze on you as he eats an apple, you stand up on stiff legs and roll your shoulders as you walk to a part of the ship away from the women but also away from most of the Vikings.

The presence of the King behind you is not silent, the heavy stabs of the crutch on the wooden floor of the ship letting you know he approaches. But even without those sounds, you ponder, you’d still feel his curious and cruel eyes set upon you, like you do now.

The Viking calls your name, and you face him to see he is offering you a knife, handle turned to you.

Your wide eyes go from the small blade in his bandaged hand, up his arm and up to meet his own eyes, but the King does not falter, still offering you the weapon.

“What are…Why are you offering me that?”

“It’s yours,” He promises, moving his hand and inciting you to take it. With caution, you do, closing your fingers around the circular handle and bringing the knife close to you. Leaning back, seemingly satisfied, the King says, “After stealing it from me and almost gauging out that Saxon’s eye, Priestess, you have earned yourself a weapon.”

You do not know if he means it as a compliment or a patronizing way of recognizing what you did, so of course you respond with a curl of your lip and looking down at the knife.

“You are certain I won’t use it against you?” You ask before you can stop yourself, but the King only huffs a breath.

“It would be interesting to see you try, Priestess.”

“I may not be like one of your shieldmaidens but I know how to hurt.” You offer, if a bit defensive, raising your eyes to meet his.

But Ivar smiles, and although the darkness in his expression doesn’t surprise you, the hunger in it does.

“That’s the thing, Priestess, you _hurt_ ,” A small, cruelly delighted laugh leaves his lips as he regards you like he did on that carnage that occurred outside of the city’s walls. “You could have done so much with that knife in your small hand, and you kno this. You could have slit your own throat, killed yourself before becoming a ‘Varangian’s prisoner’; you could have tried to kill me, punished me for putting chains on you,” His eyes are intense when his smile quietens, when his expression, although just as hungry and dark, becomes more a truth than a mask. Ivar’s voice drops when he promises, “You could have killed Stithulf. But you didn’t. You want him dead, but you didn’t kill him.”

You force your gaze away from his in what feels like an acceptance of defeat, and grit your teeth, trying to ignore the memory of blood on your lips. It tasted sweet when it shouldn’t have.

“I am not like you, I do not…delight myself with death, my King.” You offer still, reminding yourself you will not let the cruel nature of the man that imprisoned you change your own.

“That man you killed in that field,” Your body freezes in your seat, for a moment the errant thought of having killed someone he wants revenge for making your blood run cold. The King leans an elbow on his iron-encased thigh, his face close to yours, eyes intent on reading your every expression, “Why did you do it?”

“What? H-He would have killed me.”

“Was it just that that made you do it?” He insists, voice a purr and even if phrased as a question he looks into your eyes like he knows the answer.

“Yes.” You reply stiffly, teeth gritted.

The King laughs darkly, gesturing with his hand as if attempting to placate you. You do not, and instead of voicing whatever the blood in your veins wants you to -and get you killed for-, you bite your tongue.

“Then, if it was just survival, just a woman of the Gods defending herself; why is it that you want Stithulf dead, Priestess?” Ivar asks, voice dark and eyes with that same intensity as if he looks past the title turned burden that your people gave you and sees the parts of you that fill you with shame and regret. The Viking leans even closer, and continues, “I know you want him dead. And you don’t want to give him a clean death, he does not deserve it. You want to make him bleed, you want to make him scream; like you did to that warrior in the field.

You remain frozen in place, enthralled and terrified all at once. The King leans even closer, or maybe you do, and your breaths are almost one.

He watches you with that same intensity that he did from across the battlefield, where you stood in shaky ground with blood on your face, your mouth, your hands, your dress.

“I saw you, remember that. It was not a vow to your Gods that made you bash his face with the shield until he couldn’t fight anymore, it was not your desire to return to your…peaceful city that made you rip out his skin with your teeth, your Goddess did not kill him pushing that arrow into his eye.” You can only look back at him, eyes wide and heart beating fast. Ivar’s smile widens, tip of his pink tongue tracing his lower lip before he rasps out, “No, it was none of that…was it?”

_I wanted to kill him, I wanted to make him scream in pain. I wanted to make him pay for what his brothers in arms did to mine, to Narses._

_In his face I saw the face of every man that thought he could raise a hand to me, that silenced me, that wanted to take what’s mine._

But you refuse to voice those thoughts, you refuse to let that part of you breathe, and instead hiss,

“I come from a kingdom of peace and civility, and no matter what assumptions you make, I shall not forget that.” You tell him, almost feeling you are talking to yourself, repeating to yourself the same thoughts that you’ve been forcing into your mind for years now.

It is wrong to want death. It is wrong to want blood. It is wrong to want chaos.

You cannot find your belonging surrounded by death and iron, you tell yourself, but a whisper in the back of your mind offers: _you will not find your belonging amongst flowers._

So you force your eyes to focus on the horizon of the sea meeting the sky all around you, not daring to even breathe.

“Of course, your home of flower fields and warmth.” He mocks, and although you steal a glance his way, your stomach lurching at his taunt, you say nothing else.

Admitting you starved in the flower fields of Eleusis, admitting you chased war and death like old friends asking you to dance, admitting your drive to deny the Byzantine Christians their foothold in Attica was more than the desire for freedom; it would all mean that your people died for nothing more than a fraud, that the priestess they followed and loved was a mirage, that you failed not only your legacy but yourself.

It would mean you are not your mother’s daughter, it would mean the baby they decided would be a follower of the Goddess of Spring failed the Gods themselves by craving chaos.


	7. Chapter 7

The ships arrive and dock on the city you now know is Dublin, and as you are led in the dead of night to wherever your captor deems you spend the night, you turn back to the sea one last time, looking over the horizon and wondering where the last of the free Attics are now.

You know they would have followed your commands regardless of you being there to lead them. Maybe they assumed you left with Sieghild, you realize, and it is almost preferable that they believe that rather than know how humiliatingly and painfully you’ve been defeated.

The upcoming winter will crush their bodies and spirits, you know this. You knew this the moment you decided to depart from Aneridge with them, but like you said before, you and all the Greeks, as it is mandated by the Gods, would rather die than be slaves to a Christian.

A cluster of small and clearly partly-abandoned cabins appears before you as the torches light the path ahead, and you are silently led by the King into one of them. You watch as the thralls scramble to light fires and chase the cold and stillness from the home.

After they leave, the King surprises you by handing you a couple of furs for you to extend on the ground like he does and sleep. The hope of mercy is almost worse than pain and death, you think.

“You trust me not to kill you in your sleep? Leaving me chained to your bedside will only make me think of revenge, my King.” You taunt, eyes narrowed.

But he is not bothered, or if it is, he manages not to show it. The King motions for the world outside the house’s entrance, eyebrows lifted and mouth curved downwards. A dare, a mock, a challenge.

“Go outside if you want, Priestess,” He taunts, and as you narrow your eyes at him, you see a sardonic and yet small smile playing at his lips. “But you know the only thing keeping my men from tearing you to shreds…is me.”

“I do not fear death,” You reply as you straighten your back, “No Hiereia of the Dread Gods fears death.”

“They won’t kill you.” He promises, delighted in his own cruelty; and it is with a huff you sit back down on the fur and cross your arms. The thought of looking like a spoiled child crosses your mind.

Seemingly pleased with your response, he sits down on the furs, discarding the crutch at his side. Your eyes, with what you tell yourself is the mere curiosity of a healer, follow the certain movements of his fingers as he sets to apparently take off the braces around his legs.

But, seemingly feeling your eyes upon him, the King raises eyes that burn like Greek fire to yours, and with a snarl orders you to look away.

You do so, hearing only the quietened or muffled grunts and the shuffling of iron. When the silence becomes too much, stretching even after he is done taking off the braces, and with your gaze still, in begrudging obedience, set on the ground before you; you ask,

“Why bring me here, why…why do this?”

“You and I are not done talking, Priestess.” He replies easily, as if curiosity alone, as if desire for companionship alone; would warrant all this chaos.

Aware kicking and screaming will only get you so far, you force the hostility out of your tone and shrug your shoulders.

“Then talk, Viking.”

“You would ask many questions, before.” He points out after a breath of silence, making your brow furrow in affront and confusion alike. You turn your eyes to his.

“You expected things to remain as if we…as if we were still in Aneridge?”

The answer that _yes, he did_ , is clear in the way his eyes narrow, his posture shifts before he retorts. It amazes you and insults you at the same time.

“Names change nothing.” He reminds you, and to rub salt on the wound his fascinatingly foreign lips trace the syllables of your name, his pale eyes defying your own gaze.

You pry your eyes from his, and look ahead again.

“Where I am from, names bind us and free us.”

“Why?”

You shrug, “They just…do. We are even taught some Gods’ names cannot be uttered. Like the Mistress, Goddess of the Dead. Only Hiereiai like me get to learn that secret.”

“And what’s her name?”

The laugh leaves your lips, because of course he would ask that.

“She is the Mistress of Chaos, King Ivar. Uttering her name is not wise, for you call forth her presence.”

“Why is she so feared by you Greeks?”

“Her tales speak of…resilience. Of beauty and death, and both are feared by my people. We learn to fear beauty, for it is terror, for it makes the mightiest of Gods and Kings lose control. We are not like you Varangians, we do not seek death even if we honor it, for it means chaos, it means loss. She is marked by death and life alike, she is a child of two worlds by her birthright and her husband’s will,” A small smile curves your lips upwards the refreshing taste of defiance on your tongue as you add, “What her choice was, no one knows or seems to care.”

“Is that why you are the way you are?” He asks bluntly, and you turn to him, startled. “Your tales of your Goddess say she didn’t have a choice, and you are afraid of not having a choice yourself.”

“Everyone yearns for freedom, my King.”

His eyes narrow, giving you an uneasy feeling that he can strip you of every lie you have ever told yourself and see your bare bones beneath, “Not over survival. You do, you’d rather die than be a slave.”

“And knowing that you still placed chains on me.”

“They were necessary. And temporary, as you can see,” He motions to your hands with a vague gesture, looking into your eyes as if he is awaiting the defiance. You don’t give him the pleasure of being right, and instead stay silent. After a while and with a notable movement of his jaw as he cocks his head to the side, the King adds, “Once we arrive in Kattegat, you will be a free woman.”

The hope threatens to choke you, and because you know it is infinitely more dangerous than dread, you push it down and instead accept the apprehension that comes with his words, his declaration.

“Free.” You repeat, slowly, meticulously, and a little brokenly.

He nods, “You have my word.”

“What use have I for your word, Viking?”

Ivar smiles, though, and you have an inkling it is the closest you have been since arriving to earning a genuine one. You would be lying if you said it didn’t entice you.

“I never break a promise.”

You hold his gaze for a few more moments, and finally acquiesce with a nod.

“So will I be able to leave?”

“You will be free,” He repeats, but it feels like a correction to your assumption rather than an acquiescence. “Once my…curiosity is satisfied you may do as you please.”

“Curiosity?” You repeat, “Your people whisper as they may, but I am no witch, Viking. And even if I were, my Gods would never embrace you.”

And the change is minuscule, but somehow striking at the same time. The King straightens, his eyes harden even as his lips curve into a mocking and cruel smile.

“Ah, but I knew that already, Priestess. Aren’t you Greeks known for discarding cripples like me the moment they are born?”

It burns to be reminded of Sparta, of its halls of victory and its alleys of shame. So your lips move before you can even think, “My father’s homeland is m-…” You stop yourself, and cock your head to the side, “How would you know of those practices?”

“Stithulf talks.”

“Uselessly, most of the time,” You correct bitterly, and after a breath of hesitation you add, “And one of our Gods walks like you do,” You mention, motioning with your hand to the crutch at his side, “nothing but your actions is the reason behind my Gods scorning you.”

You are fully aware you are speaking falsely, as you cannot claim to know the wills of the Gods nor where their favor lays, and it is as dangerous as defying the very fates, but you cannot stop the words from leaving your lips.

“My actions?” The Viking repeats, clearly a taunt that your stupid tongue is too quick to fall for.

“You took a Hiereia of the Gods and made her a prisoner!”

He only leans back on his place, eyeing you in a way that makes you uncomfortable and exposed.

“I wanted you here, Priestess. I will not be denied.”

The burn of anger creeps up your face, and your lip curls in a snarl,

“So for your arrogance and your…your pride I am to be chained!?” You question breathlessly, your chest rising and falling quicker and quicker as you notice how he grows more and more content by your fury. He eyes you the same way he did when he found you across a battlefield with blood dripping down your chin and smiled like he could devour you whole, and when your heart beat at the sight of his bloodthirsty eyes like you would let him. But you shake those thoughts off, and point an accusatory finger at him, even if your hand trembles, “You didn’t _ask_.”

“Would you have come with me?”

_Sieghild’s eyes, a choice shining in them as the distant fires of her countrymen’s camp play on her inked face, a promise of survival and maybe something else if you come with her. The certainty of what your choice between hope and nostalgia is._

You shake your head, “No.”

“Then there was no point in asking, Priestess.”

Instead of continuing to argue, you take a deep breath, and after a few moments of calculated silence, you offer,

“If I am truly free, I want to return to where I belong.”

“Oh, where will you return to? Your burnt homeland, or your dead countrymen?” The taunt doesn’t faul to make a pang of pain strike through your heart, but you keep your face impassive, even as the King continues in a snarl, “I would have you know, _Greek_ , that the reason the survivors you commanded to escape Aneridge are al-…”

“How…how did you, um, know about that?”

“I’m a cripple, not an idiot,” He points out, and you hide a wince at the way he uses that word. He uses it with the same intent to mock or disrespect than the people he probably hears it from use it. “You Greeks stood out, and not because of your…” He motions to your whole body with a free hand, and you frown, following his hand with affronted eyes, but say nothing. “But because you were all itching to get out. Of course I had people keeping an eye on what you were planning on doing.”

“You didn’t stop them,” You state, a question even if you phrase it otherwise. Panic grips at your throat, the desperation to keep more death from being your responsibility, to keep more blood from staining your hands, keeps you frozen in your spot. He doesn’t answer fast enough, “Ivar, did you-…what did you do to them?”

His eyes narrow for a small moment, a barely-there reaction to your question or something else. But you are hanging onto his words, debating between believing he will tell the truth or lie again.

Finally, he acquiesces, “They are alive and well, Priestess.”

Relief threatens to weaken your very person, your shoulders lowering and your lungs caving under the weight of this strange peace. Pressing your lips together to keep them from trembling, you take a deep breath.

“Surely you didn’t do that out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I can be merciful.”

Your eyes narrow, “I doubt that.”

He shrugs in acceptance of your words, and says nothing for a few moments. Drinking from his cup, he looks up at you over the rim of it, considering you in silence before speaking again,

“Maybe you inspire mercy in me.”

You shake your head.

“I have no interest in mercy, Ivar.”

“You don’t, Priestess?”

And with a smile that makes hungry eyes travel to your lips you know you’ve won, “We heathens share the same enemies, Varangian.”

“So you do want Stithulf dead.”

“And yet you offer him peace.” You taunt, a thrill of excitement running through your veins at being for once the one in control, even if it makes Ivar turn furious eyes to you and slam his closed fist on the ground at his side.

“Because of you,” He accuses, but you don’t know what he means by that. Surely he wouldn’t stop the bloodshed just for one prisoner of war? Before you can ask anything regarding the uncertainties in your mind, he continues, “And I didn’t offer any _peace_ , my useless brother did, so he could expand and _farm_.”

The disgust with which he regards the task of tending to Demeter’s soil makes a part of you feel insulted and irritated, but you’re more curious about his reasoning behind the meanings of war and peace to bring it up.

Instead, you state, “He promised you something.”

“Somewhere north of here, he says he can grant us land, so Dublin can expand its borders.” He offer slowly, but before he is even done, you’re shaking your head.

“Stithulf doesn’t own any land, Viking. He gave up his titles and fortune to chase for an army in the Mediterranean.”

“You lie,” He tests, but you shake your head again, “I know you want him dead, Priestess, you have every reason to lie.”

“And yet I’m not lying,” You offer easily, “I have no interest in having you wage war in my name, Varangian, I’m just telling you what I know: you exchanged victory for a prisoner of war and nothing more, for that Christian has no gold and no land to offer.”

He says nothing, but observes you quietly for a few moments. You meet his gaze with no hesitation, completely sure of what you’re telling him, so after a few breaths the King huffs and turns his back to you, signaling his intent to sleep now.

You do the same, laying on your side and closing your eyes.

____

“Earlier, when you talked of your Gods.” He starts, and blinking a few times to adjust your eyes to the darkness, you manage to see him laying on his back, his hands over his stomach.

“Yes?”

“You said one of your Gods walks like me.”

“Lord Hephaestus, God of fire and inventions,” You offer returning your own gaze to the wooden ceiling. “One of the only to return to Olympus after being casted off the halls of the Gods.”

“Why was he casted off?”

“Some say he was born with-…he was born weak, and his mother casted him off for his…deformity,” You offer carefully, because you know why he is asking, the Gods may have made you arrogant but they didn’t make you stupid. “Others say when he was young, he tried to rescue his mother from Father Zeus’ rage and thus he threw Hephaestus to the sea, breaking both his legs on the fall.”

He doesn’t ask anything else, and so you don’t share any more of the story. There’s the faint sound of voices and boots on gravel from somewhere far away from the house, but other than that silence reigns between you, and you could fool yourself into believing he is asleep.

“And what do you believe, Priestess?”

“I believe Hera loved him then and loves him still. No mother turns her back on her child, does she?”

A grunt of acquiescence is his only answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hi! Hope you enjoyed this!! Tiny tidbit of info: In ancient Greece, according to the sources I handled, Persephone’s name was not to be uttered, considered a mystery and naming her would be calling for her which was frowned upon. Instead, she was given other titles, among them Despoina, which was also a title in Byzantine Greece and means Mistress, Lady/Mistress of the Home. The followers of her faith supposedly are the ones to know her secret (her name), and the only ones allowed to say it, in secrecy.


	8. Chapter 8

King Ivar talks in his sleep, who would have thought? His voice rouses you from a restless sleep, thinking for a moment he calls for you but it’s just rumbles as he tosses and turns. You sigh in the darkness, and suddenly it feels like the shadows are heavier than before, more suffocating, more…more real.

You don’t know where you are walking to, but you don’t stop until your bare feet touch the wet and cold sand.

With your knees pressed to your chest you keep your eyes on the waves breaking near the coast, closing your eyes and imagining the lull of the ocean is the same as the one you heard from the temple in Eleusis.

But the sand is rougher under your bare feet, the waves louder and more enraged, the wind is more biting and less forgiving. And you are alone, alone and defeated on a foreign land of cold and death.

So you open your eyes, because this isn’t home, and reach with cold fingers for the gifted knife you kept in your person despite the knowledge if anyone here wanted you dead you would be so.

Keeping your gaze on the horizon, you take a hold of the wind-swept tresses of your hair and cut a lock at the end of it. A mark of mourning and a mark for all the deaths you are responsible for.

Holding on tightly to the strands of grief, you extend a hand, a farewell to the Greeks that are not to return, an offering to this land that has brought you nothing but sorrow and heartache.

When you open your hand, the hair flows in the cold winds away from you, and you allow yourself a small prayer in Greek to Macaria to bless their sacrifice, to Thanatos for safe passage, to Persephone for warmth, to Hades for mercy.

And, in a selfish moment, you pray to every God in the Underworld not to summon you home just yet. For if the Fates allow it so, you will see to it yourself that the blood spilled is paid forth.

Because if the King’s word is to be trusted, sooner or later you will walk out of his land a free woman. You will return to Greece, even if you have to wade through blood to do so.

You close your eyes, and the faint smell of snowdrops fills your nose, reminding you of spring and loneliness, of teardrops and homesickness.

A part of you tries to follow the tug on your heart and listen to what the Gods try to tell you, but you’re left cold and alone when you try reaching for the Pantheon you’ve come to know your whole life.

The sound of gravel ruffling behind you startles you, and you turn around with a gasp and a strong grip on the knife Ivar gifted you, ready to at least leave whoever is coming to hurt you with a scar to remember you by.

But it is Ivar who approaches you, strong arms dragging him forward as he moves over the cold sand. His eyes stay on yours as he moves, reminding you for a moment of a serpent approaching its cornered prey.

Still, even if your mind refuses to accept it, your heart lurches in relief, and you loosen the tension in your body. Still you remain quiet as he finds a place sitting at your side, moving his legs with ease to stretch them in front of him.

You lower your gaze to your hands, and only then notice the wrong hold of the knife made you injure yourself. The faint streaks of blood in your pointer finger and near your thumb bring to the front of your mind the sting that comes with the wound you opened by holding the hiltless knife the wrong way.

After a moment of consideration, you bring your hand to your mouth and lick off the blood, letting the knife fall on your lap.

Stealing a quick side glance to the Viking has you finding his eyes on you with a strange sense of intensity in his gaze, a quiet sort of…something. You shrug it off, and stay quiet, but his irritated question is quick to break the silence.

“I woke up and you weren’t there.”

You’re startled and annoyed at the entitled tone of his voice, but you still shrug.

“I am a free woman, am I not?”

“So you were trying to escape?”

“You would stop me.” You reply without hesitation.

“And yet you still don’t fear me.”

“If you wanted to kill me you would have already, if you wanted to use me as leverage for court games you will need time to do so,” You swallow the shame, the dread, and continue as your eyes look blindly ahead, “And…and if you wanted to take me, you could have avoided all this and just asked.”

Silence stretches between you, and in a moment of weakness you turn your gaze to find his clear eyes already set upon you, seeking and demanding as they always have been.

“You wanted me.”

The tone of surprise, the slightly parted lips that draw your gaze down to his mouth, the way his eyes search your face; it all makes your foolish heart see him in a new light for a fleeting moment, in the light of the man you met in that moldy cabin that was never yours to begin with.

But you remind yourself of what brought you here, of what he truly saw when he looked at you: a foreign witch to conquer.

So, you remind him that the woman he met, the woman that lingered for moments too long on the lure of his eyes, on the curve of his smile, on his expressive gestures; the woman that thought foolishly she could be anything other than the name and titles bestowed upon her; the woman that started to trust him; that woman was gone the moment he put chains on you.

“I wanted the man I met in Aneridge, I have no idea who you are.”

And with just a few words, any trace of softness, any trace of vulnerability, any trace of that strange boyish glances he used to throw your way when you were just a Priestess and he was just a Viking, are gone.

King Ivar curls his nose in anger, lifting his head a bit as he warns you,

“I’m growing tired of your games, Priestess.”

“Kill me, then.” You bite out, even as your voice wobbles. Because you have heard the stories, you have heard the tendrils of voices not quite human reaching your ears. You know he is as cruel and as dangerous as the whispers say, you know he carries the favor of the Dread Lord, you know he was born to be ruthless, to die and return, to suffer and conquer.

But there’s a part of you that wants to test him, dare him.

_Use your strength against me, hurt me, kill me. Make me know what I am to feel for you, make me disgusted, make me fearful. I’m tired of hope._

But Ivar just smiles, a cold and angry smile but a smile nonetheless, and turns his eyes head, choosing silence to reign between you until the sun comes up over those distant waves.

____

You approach the city encased in tall walls, and though awe at its size and life pulls at your heart, you cannot help but feel you are walking blindly into a cage.

There’s so many pale and distrusting eyes set on you, gazes persisting on the things that make you different to them: your dress, your hair, your face, your skin.

And you’re not stupid enough to ignore that even in the way you are brought to port you are separated from the other prisoners, from the Christians the Varangian has brought from across this sea. You sail in the same boat as their King, there’s a distance between you and the rest of the men and women in the ship, you are washed and unbound.

You stay silent, and watch raptly as the King moves away from you as the boat docks, discarding the crutch so he can lift himself up to the pier, and standing up again with help of the crutch and a nearby barrel. He lifts his gaze and immediately finds your own, and a cruel smile starts to spread over his face as he stretches a hand in a mocking gesture to help you up.

“Priestess.”

You take your eyes off his instead, and look down at your dress as you grab your skirts and lift them so you can safely move towards the pier. Standing at the King’s side -because you know he would not hesitate to call you to order, to demand your presence where he deems it so, to tug on the invisible chains around your wrists- you take a moment to look over the lively pier, filled of families reuniting, stands of fishermen selling their captures, slaves carrying baskets of goods around, lives blossoming past the winter that seems to pierce the air of this place.

“So this is to be my new prison?” You ask instead of voicing any other thought, a little delighted in the way you put the King on edge.

He doesn’t hesitate in reaching down and grabbing onto your arm, lifting your wrist between the two of you, his blue eyes challenge yours.

“You’re not a prisoner,” He repeats the lie, and although the mark of your struggle against the chains once set upon you is still there, he seems to want you to believe you are free. “You are my guest, Priestess.”

“Guest.” You repeat, and his eyes narrow, his nose furrows. It is too easy to draw out his rage, to get to see ragged edges and bled truths. And you will always prefer rage, prefer anger and chaos, over the mocking cruelty that’s the mask of the King of Kattegat.

He starts walking and the people move as to open a path for him, and considering your only option is to be left alone surrounded by these intimidating and foreign people, you bite your tongue and follow.

“You should be grateful, Priestess, your life could be so much worse, were you at anyone else’s mercy.”

“I know this is a mercy even if you have none,” You acknowledge, and the King stops walking, looking at you over his shoulder as you calmly walk to his side. You meet his eyes, and clarify, “I will still not thank you.”

He grunts as he turns back around, a movement of his head as he arranges his legs to move with the help of his crutch, and even if his back is to you, you still know he is gritting his teeth, the anger written in the lines of his back, in the huffs of air that leave his lips.

“I know, you still choose to hate me.”

“Ivar,” You call out with more softness than you intended to. After the King hesitates for a moment, enough for you to know he is listening, you reach his side again and in a voice that is almost a whisper you offer, “I will never look upon you with anything other than hate, as long as you are the one with all the power and I’m relegated to following your commands.”

____

You are given time as the King addresses his people to clean yourself up and dress up in some fresh clothing. The dresses that are offered to you, the hair ornaments, the earrings and the bracelets, they all scream of foreignness, of being away from home; so you choose to keep your old and stained red dress.

You are brought to the loud and vibrant main hall at the King’s request, and it is with a gesture he orders you to take a seat on one of the tables by his side, though he remains on his throne. You eye the people around you, laughing, drinking, dancing; the world around you moving on and on as if yours hasn’t flipped upside down.

And the stupid, childish, reckless part of you that has made you commit so many mistakes along the way; that part of you wants to refuse him, wants to stand your ground and deny him of any power over you.

But the ambient presses down on you, like the air when you reach a mountaintop, and the people are too loud and too foreign, and the only thing you’re familiar with in this cold and strange place is the eyes that burn like Greek Fire of the King.

So you take your seat at his side.

The way his cruel smile widens, regarding you like a dog that performed a good trick makes your blood boil. Your hands curling into fists and your lips pursing without your intent only seem to entertain him further, which makes the silent interaction a vicious circle you cannot seem to break out of.

“Good girl.” He mocks, because of course he does, because you are an open book and he is a cruel and insufferable man. But you refuse -and so does your self-preservation- to run your mouth, and instead play a game, like you were taught to.

“There’s a first time for everything.” You answer around a smile that the King starts to return, but a voice from somewhere further back in the hall brings your conversation to a close.

“The witch seems fiery. I wonder if she is that hard to tame.”

You were meant to hear those words and the laughs that follow, you were meant to feel the threat, the humiliation. You know this, but even knowing it cannot keep the crawl of your skin, the shame clogging your throat.

The Christians called you a _Heathen_. These Vikings call you a _Witch_. There may be a difference, but you cannot see it. Both will try to beat you or rape you into submission, both will see foreign as inferior.

Although you may not see the man that said those words, it seems that that King Ivar does. The cold eyes of someone that has killed for less and would again set on the warrior behind you, and even if curiosity begs for you to turn around and see their expression, you hold your place.

A mumble of apology reaches your ears, but it is not meant for you, so you say nothing. The King shows a quick and purposely false smile before raising his voice,

“Leave us.”

A multitude of questions arise, but again a glare from the volatile King silences any real questioning, and the room feels so much larger and cavernous once the men have left.

Ivar turns to you, studying you.

“So, Priestess.”

The tales your father used to gift you with of unarmed prisoners being thrown into a coliseum against lions and wolves and all kinds of predators are brought forth to your mind as you stand alone in that empty and cold hall.

“So, Viking.” You quip back, crossing your arms to hide the nervous tremble of your hands.

He studies you for a moment, finally asking, “What will you use your freedom for?”

“For the gift to choose, without fear you selling or giving me away like a barn animal.” You reply dryly.

“I can still do that.” He is quick to say, dangling threats over your head like it truly entertains him.

“Not without breaking your promise.” You say, not aware of how much relief his word gives you until this moment.

The King narrows his eyes, annoyance clear in his pale gaze, and stands up from his throne.

You hold your ground as he approaches you, but he instead chooses to sit in one of the chairs in the now empty table. Ivar motions with a bloodied hand for you to take a seat as well, the movement a flourish in mock recognition of your noble birth.

You sit, albeit stiffly. Drinking what you assume to be mead from a goblet, the Viking King regards you sideways.

“And what are these choices you will make, now free?”

You answer with the first thought that comes to mind, realizing too late you give away a little of yourself in the process.

“Find out what the Christians have done with Attica’s ashes.”

“Your kingdom?”

“My kingdom.” You sentence, and even after over a year of denying the people that traveled with you the right to call you _Anassa_ , you realize now that you have been, albeit crownless, acting like it for so long.

After a few moments the Viking narrows his eyes, “You will not return there anytime soon.”

If it’s a taunt, if it’s a threat, you can only hear the stubborn possessiveness of a child refusing to let go of a new toy.

“But I will return.” You promise.

“How are you so sure?”

Looking to the hall around you, you ask, “You returned here, didn’t you?”

You could swear the King looks intrigued, impressed even, for a moment before he dismisses you with a gesture of his hand. He believes you, though, of this you are certain.

But he says nothing else, shrugging his shoulders and drinking deeply before engaging in discussion with one of the men at his other side.

You keep your eyes on the King, and although for a moment you are distracted from the braces around his legs, and the way they do not seem to work normally, when your eyes continue a path upwards and reach his shoulders and arms, you realize he does not need his legs to fight like the men that decimated Stithulf’s army.

You continue your path to his face, and study the braids that trail through the top of his head to the back of it, the proud edge of his nose, the shape of his lips, for a moment tainted with mead his tongue licks away.

The sound of tables and chairs being dragged brings your attention away from your…ogling. You lift your gaze to see two men in the middle of the hall shake off their upper armor and in the midst of laughs and cheers from the others, struggle and wrestle for victory in the middle of the hall.

It seems you are no longer the novelty in the room, and you allow yourself to relax in your seat for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hope you enjoyed! I use flowers and animals a lot to point towards the Gods, either Norse or Greek, so: snowdrops are, according to where I searched, symbols of Freyja, created from her tears when she was first brought to Asgad from Vanaheim, and in her homesickness when the tears fell to the earth the flowers bloomed as snowdrops.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, Galla brings up Peitho, Greek deity of persuasion (both sexual and political) and seduction, and there’s evidence about her being a symbol for prostitutes (’servants of Peithos’, according to Pintar).

Warriors dressed the same way the ones functioning as the King’s personal guard lead you gruffly but respectfully through the waves of people and the tides of fires and strange houses.

You catch sight of where they are leading you, and consider that drowning in that sea of foreign people and hostile glares was not as bad as having to face your captor again.

But, you ponder, getting used to not having a choice anymore should be something you should be doing, so you straighten your back and continue walking as the warriors lead you to Ivar the Boneless.

His pale eyes find yours, but you deviate your gaze away from his, and bite down on your tongue to keep silent.

He dismisses the guards with a gesture, and motions for you to follow him past the almost empty throne room, into his quarters.

You walk inside and try not flinching at the sound of the door closing behind you. The place is well lit, and not as cold as the biting winds of the outside, but it is still unfamiliar and foreign.

Worry and dread churn at your stomach, but you still your heart and try to keep your hands from trembling. You tell yourself that if he wanted to force himself upon you, he would have done so a long time before, and it helps lessen the panic bubbling in your blood.

“I have been thinking of what I will tell people about you,” He starts simply, as if this is just another conversation you shared on that city that smelled of despair. You stay frozen in your place, watching him with wide eyes as he limps towards a low table and sits on a chair by it. The King motions for a chair by his side, but you cannot move. “Relax and have dinner, woman.”

“I thought…your people dine in the great hall.”

“Not tonight.”

You move limbs of lead to sit on that chair, feeling so alike one of those Christians thrown into the coliseum to prove themselves against a lion that your heart feels like it may either beat out of your chest or suddenly stop.

“It’s just a man and a woman sharing a meal, nothing more.” The Viking presses, gesturing to the plate in front of you again. He is being so strange, and it has nothing to do with him being Viking.

“A Greek Priestess and a Viking King,” You clarify, no little bite in your tone, to then add in a sardonic jest, “Why would I dare think this is nothing but ordinary?”

It is the first time in days that you have allowed yourself to forget keeping your mouth shut with a muzzle as strong as the chains that held onto your wrists; and you dare think the Viking notices, offering a faint softening of his features in return.

“What would make this ordinary for you?”

“Stone walls, the warmth of the sun, speaking in my own tongue.” You list out before picking a piece of cheese carefully and putting it in your mouth.

“Teach me your language then,” The King orders, leaning forward on his table. At your startled and surprised expression, he shrugs his shoulders and his mouth curves downward in a gesture of indifference before he offers, “Stone is expensive, and I do not yet command the sun. We will speak in your tongue then.”

“What reasons do you have to make me feel at ease?” You ask before you can stop yourself, eyes narrowed. “If you wanted me to feel anything but hate you wouldn’t have chained me and dragged me all the way to your kingdom.”

“I don’t care about you feeling anything, Priestess,” He dismisses easily, but the clench in his jaw gives away the lie. Not in the mood to die for calling it out, you just lift an eyebrow, and he explains, “You are a useful woman to have around.”

The scoff that leaves your lips couldn’t have been stopped if they had been sown together by the Gods themselves, and you turn spiteful eyes to the King.

“I am of no use to you.”

“We will see.”

With an anger you hadn’t felt since you stood before Constantinople’s Patriarch and told him what he could do with his cross, you explain, “You asked me why I didn’t tell you that I’m Anassa of the Attics, and I don’t know why I didn’t, considering I was enough of a fool to believe I could confide in you; but I do know I thank the Gods every day that you didn’t know before Stithulf gave me up,” You shake your head at your own stupidity, but refuse to lie and pretend you weren’t foolish enough to delude yourself into thinking he didn’t see the foreign witch he could pride himself in conquering when he saw you. That’s why it hurts the way it does, and if you deny the source of the hurt, if you deny the hurt, you lose your anger. With your nose curled in disgust, you offer, “You will never have the satisfaction of holding a Greek Anassa in chains, Varangian. The opportunity to use my title against me is long past, and now all you have is a Mediterranean slave, nothing more.”

“You are not a slave,” You open your mouth to retort, but he is quicker. He seems to be catching up to your ways, it seems, “You don’t have chains anymore, do you?”

“A prisoner, then. Truly an honor, King Ivar.”

“Don’t disrespect me, Priestess. I am not known for my patience.”

“And I am not known for taking kindly to being captured.”

Your gaze meets his and you refuse to lower your eyes, to accept defeat. You press your lips into a line while his nose furrows, but eventually Ivar leans back on his seat with an angry huff.

“You are insufferable. I should have your tongue cut off.”

“I can gesture.” You offer stubbornly, the beginning of a smile on your lips that you furrow to keep hidden. The King answers with a small curve of his lips, pink tongue tracing his lower lip as he regards you with a strange kind of exasperation.

After a few moments of silence, he offers,

“I promised you freedom and I do not break promises. You are a free woman, but I have to keep you here.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“What difference is there between now and when you had iron chains to my wrists then?”

“Because you now know I didn’t bring you here with the intention to make you a slave.” He confesses around gritted teeth, as if offended you thought he did, even when he brought you to him in chains and paraded you like an exotic delicacy for his entertainment.

“What, then? A whore? A healer?” You press, because you will probably surprise the Gods themselves the day you learn to shut your mouth.

You are reaching for a goblet to drink from when the King answers,

“A wife.”

You knock off the goblet, it brings down a plate with it, but even as mead pours down the table you stay frozen in your place, slowly turning your face to the King that merely stretches a hand with a roll of his eyes and straightens the mess you made.

Your mouth opens quite a few times, and while your brain panics for not saying anything, you keep opening and closing your mouth.

“What are you talking about?” You settle on, finally.

“I want to make you my wife.”

A nervous laugh that sounds insane even to your own ears leaves your lips, “You are joking,” But the King shakes his head with nonchalance, and your eyes widen, “Why? Why do you-…why?”

“I have been King for quite a while, and my people will soon start demanding I get myself a Queen.” He offers flippantly, as if that problem warrants the solution he is proposing.

“Get one.” You bite out, a frown marring your face.

“I did.” He replies without hesitation, expression dripping mirth.

You cannot help the bare of your teeth, and your hands tighten to fists.

“No.” Is all you say, but it carries all your will and strength.

Ivar’s laugh is mocking and you watch with growing anger as he shakes his head dismissively, “I am not asking.”

 _You never do_ , you bite down the words, and stare at him in silence for a few moments, trying to think of…of anything.

“You will get nothing out of this,” You hiss at him, leaning closer even when you should be running away. Your eyes search his, trying to…to have him see reason, even if that reason means you get new chains. You can break iron, but you can’t break a bond. “My kingdom is ashes, my army is dead, my ‘noble blood’ is not recognized by the Byzantines any longer.”

But Ivar dismisses that too, barely a gesture of his hand. With every passing moment, you feel the invisible chains tightening on your wrists, you feel your hope dying.

“I have a kingdom, and an army. And I have no interest in noble blood.” He explains, certain.

“Then _why_?” You insist, your voice sounding so alike a plea your pride hurts.

He remains silent, considering you for a few moments. You return his gaze, and even if you are startled and more than a little terrified, you think he finds whatever he was looking for in your eyes, for he moves his head from side to side, squares his shoulders, and takes his eyes from yours and to the table before him, with the clear tells of someone about to confess something.

“All my life, Priestess, I have been in pain. I was born…cursed,” You frown slightly “A cripple, I can’t even walk properly. And everything has been a…struggle. With myself, with others.

You swallow past a dry throat and for once stay silent, looking into his eyes trying to understand what this has to do with making you a prisoner, a…a wife.

“So I have always been so _angry_ , jealous of everyone around me, filled of hate,” A twitch in his expression, nothing more, and he continues explaining. In the back of your mind you wonder if he is searching for pity or compassion. You wonder if he can discern the two. Ivar’s mouth curves into a smile as cold as the first of winters, as bitter and resentful as you have ever seen in a smile, “Nothing has come easy in my life, and since I was a child I would always ask the Gods _why_.”

_Your own words echoing in your head as you look up into eyes like Greek Fire, “Your Gods have heard you beg to know the reason behind your pain, Ivar.”_

Your gaze jumps between his eyes, and you remain quiet for a few moments, trying to understand his meaning and discern the words he expects to come out of your lips now.

After a few breaths of silence, with your voice as quiet as the sleeping world around you, you whisper,

“I don’t have an answer, Ivar.”

But an answer wasn’t what he expected from you, apparently, for the Viking shakes his head with a small smile so reminiscent of the almost bashful look he had before, when he was just a Viking and you just a Priestess, that it hurts some foolish part of your heart.

“No,” He argues, more softly than you would have ever thought a man like him to be capable of, and he leans forward, as close as he can get to you from where he sits. Looking into your eyes for a few moments, Ivar then says, “You _are_ the answer.”

You raise your eyebrows, and feel again the tension take over your frame. But you remain still on your place, keeping guarded eyes on the King as he explains,

“I was once told that the Gods mark us for pain, that some of us are…chosen to suffer, to be pushed to the ground, over and over again,” His head moves with his words, his eyes deviating to the side before he presses his lips together and meets your gaze again, “To test if we endure. And I did, I still do. I conquer, I make them proud, I give Odin and Freyja warriors to take to their halls and wars to rejoice in,” He sounds proud of himself, and the part of you that would cling to the tales of the triumphs of Ragnar and his sons thinks that he has every right to be. You catch yourself softening your stance without you meaning to when you find his Greek Fire-like eyes jumping between yours, always searching, always demanding. Ivar continues, “And I understand now, that when we fulfill what the Gods ask of us, when we…endure, we are rewarded,” A small smile curves at his lips, beautiful even if manic. His eyes don’t stray from yours as he whispers, “The Gods have sent you to me as a gift.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a gasp that almost sounds like a dying breath, the weight of reality and his words settling over your chest like a stone.

And as dread starts finding a home in the cold of your bones, all you can muster is a horrified whisper,

“What?”

He watches you with the wide eyes of a frenzied predator, and as he leans closer to you your body leans away. He still doesn’t falter, “You heard me.”

“I hope I heard wrong,” You mutter, blinking quickly as you try getting your thoughts in order. After a few moments of silence, you lift your gaze to his again, and offer, “I don’t follow your Gods.”

He shakes his head, resolute, “That doesn’t matter. You were sent to me by Freyja.”

You cannot help the laugh, manic and broken, that leaves your lips. “You are crazy.”

“I am not crazy,” He states, the edge in his tone making you straighten in your seat. His eyes narrow, “We were both lead here. Why it had to be so I don’t know, but it was fated.”

“What kind of Gods would fate this!? What kind of Gods would make all that happened happen just for us to meet!?” _Mother, father, Galla, Narses_ , everyone you lost; you cannot accept their deaths, their suffering, were just a piece in a bigger scheme involving a Varangian of all things. Your voice quietens with questions that speak of more than just Ivar’s delusions, “What kind of Gods would curse us so?”

“You are not being cursed.” He spits out, his temper rising and his voice to meet it.

“The Gods, nor yours or mine, would fate that I become your wife!” You insist, after a breath insisting, “They would fate it that I loved you if they wanted to reward you. Why would they gift you an unwilling wife?”

“It was Fate that you and I met,” He explains after a moment, “It is Fate that you remain at my side, however I choose to have you.”

His nose furrows in the beginning of a snarl, and his mouth forms around the syllables of your name. Even with all the rage in his tone and his posture, the way he says your name never ceases to carry some sort of strange familiarity in it, like nostalgia and hope intertwined.

The realization that making you his wife is not his priority, but keeping you at his side; it makes a part of you want to whisper, _trust me and I’ll stay with you_.

But it would be a lie, it would be a false promise. And you cannot bring yourself to taste lies on your lips again. Whether it is for the still burning pain of what you did to Narses, or something else, something particular to Ivar and the uncertain smiles, the flutter in your heart when you were just a Priestess and eh was just a Viking; you are afraid to say.

And you will not lie, not to him. Not about this.

Your breath quickens, and you put a desperate hand on his forearm where it rests on the table. His pale eyes jump to your hand before quickly returning to your eyes.

“Listen to me, I was in your way because…because…”

“You don’t have an answer, do you?” He hisses when your words die.

“Of course I do!” You snap back, resting your elbows on the table and running frantic hands over your hair as you try evening your breaths. This can’t…you can escape an ambitious man, a bloodthirsty man, a powerful man. But a man that believes his own delusions you cannot…you cannot get away from. Taking a deep breath, you find his eyes again, not caring how much this sounds like pleading, “You cannot do this, you cannot expect me to…don’t put chains on me.”

“I am not chaining you!” Ivar snarls, a hand grabbing at the back of your head tightly, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are enraged and more than a little desperate, and the breath leaves your lungs as you realize there’s no way to bring him out of this delusion. “You were sent by the Gods to me, Priestess. And you will be by my side, I’m not letting you go.”

But you are shaking your head before he is even done speaking, and you want to scream to the top of your lungs that this is wrong, that this is madness. And yet, the rage dies in your throat and all you are left is fear.

Fear, and the desperation not to be chained with shackles that you cannot break.

“I am not a…a gift, I am a person,” You insist, “I have nothing to do with your Gods, nor they with me.”

“You are touched by the Gods, you are favored by Freyja.” He reminds you, not a moment of hesitation in his words, making the weight of defeat grow heavier and heavier.

“But I am a person, I am…my own person, I have a story, I-I have wants and hopes.” You whisper, frantic hand reaching up and grabbing on tightly to his wrist as you search his eyes.

He considers you in silence, his hand relinquishing the tight hold on your loose hair and for a moment you could fool yourself in to believing the Viking plays with the strands at the back of your head.

“A story that led you to me,” He promises, nodding faintly. If it is to convince you or himself, you are almost afraid to know. His eyes burn like Greek Fire as they gaze upon yours, and he vows quietly, “And all you may want I will give you.”

You press your mouth into a line to keep words and tears at bay, and breathe out, “But not my freedom.”

The flare of rage is back in his gaze, and the growl is back in his tone when he states, “I am not imprisoning you.”

Your gaze falls from his, and all the breath in your lungs leaves your body in defeat, as if baring your chest of air can somehow change any of this.

Blind eyes search the nothingness in front of you, like you can find an answer in this foreign land of cold and death, like anything in this Viking’s room or home can give you solace.

But there’s no escaping, this time. This time, Narses will not be here to save you from the flames; this time, your mother will not be there to protect you.

This time, you are alone. Alone and defeated.

Tears fill your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, you refuse to let him win.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” You whisper finally, looking at the mess of mead and scattered pieces of food in the table from your clumsiness, and wondering faintly of who is going to clean this up.

The thought that answers ‘ _his wife_ ’ makes a hysterical laugh bubble in your chest, but you swallow it down.

“We don’t get to choose our fate, Priestess.” Is all the Viking gives as answer.

You nod faintly and almost manically to yourself, taking a few deep breaths and telling yourself this is…it could have been worse. You don’t know particularly how, but it could be worse.

You remember your time back in Attica, and the poison that place made grow on you is not easily dissolved by distance and nostalgia.

 _Lower your eyes when men speak_.

They went to you for council, they asked your blessing for their marriages, their funerals, their wars. But no, how could you look them in the eye, how could you speak up when they were in the room.

 _Noble blood is but a vessel for the alliances of men_.

They put titles on your head, they bowed their greetings, they showered your door with marriage proposals. And yet, not yet twenty years ago the same families had sent your father condolences when they heard the child his barren wife had birthed him was a daughter and not a son.

_Be a wife, a mother, a home. Not a leader, a traveler, a war._

Not a thousand years would make you forget how they muttered to themselves when you proved you could read and write, how they looked in disgust when they heard you would go out to hunt, how they gritted their teeth when you spoke out about how to fight the Saracen raiders, the Slavs and the Arabs.

You are not deluded enough to believe you will be seen for much more than what’s under your skirts here either, but at least here you can fight back without the disapproving glances. You may lose every battle, especially against their King, but here they will not shame you for fighting.

So, you grit your teeth and calm yourself with the truth that defeat has not yet settled in your heart, as you thought it would, once the reality of your powerlessness dawned on you.

At your silence, the King hesitates, like he doesn’t know what to do with your compliance, like once the resistance is gone he loses what he had been chasing.

After a breath and shuffling in his seat, he starts quietly, “You crossed so many seas, survived so many things, Priestess. Don’t you ever wonder why?”

“Because I’m stubborn, not because I’m…I’m made for you.”

This makes him laugh, setting you even more on edge as you realize it is not a mocking or cruel laugh, but a strangely fond one.

 _Gods, this is…this has to be a strange nightmare_.

“Yes, you are stubborn, and insufferable,” He frowns as he speaks, but behind his fingers that now lay by his mouth, you catch sight of a smile, “But you are _true_ , you don’t lie, even when for the sake of your own life you should.”

The laugh that leaves your lips is bitter, but you cannot help it, “Oh, I have lied before, my King.”

_Narses cups your cheek in one big and warm hand, and you have to remind yourself to lean into the touch._

_“I love you.” He whispers, lips curving into a smile you struggle to return._

_“I love you, too.” You lie, closing your eyes at his kiss and refusing to open them until the sound of the tent entrance flipping closed signals he left._

_“But you don’t, do you?” Galla asks from her place sitting on one of the tables, but you do not turn to face her, so she continues, almost impressed, “Peitho keep you, my friend, you promised your love in exchange for an army.”_

_“I…didn’t think I would survive long enough for the lie to start hurting.” You confess after a breath, holding yourself up with a hand on the back of a chair, and for once in days the need for balance is not born out of the burns over your body._

_“Well, none of us do.”_

But Ivar’s response is just as quick, just as certain, “But not to me.”

“How are you so certain?”

“If you had wanted to lie you would have spun some…” He considers his words, his head moving slightly from side to side as he thinks, “…promises or tales about me being special, a chosen one. But you didn’t, you didn’t-…you saw me as a man first, treated me like you would any other.”

You narrow your eyes when they meet his, and you understand what he means. Your gaze lowers to his legs, encased in heavy iron that still makes you think of pain before anything else, and you think, not for the first time, of what life must have been for him.

“If you do this, I will only see a captor when I look at you,” You warn in trembling syllables, lowering your gaze to your hands. “If you want a slave to be your Gods’ gift, you have your pick, my King.”

The unheard question of why you, why all this, _why_ ; does not go unnoticed, judging by the moment of hesitation before the Viking speaks again, but it goes unanswered regardless.

“You will not be a slave, I am making you the most powerful woman in these lands, I…you will be Queen of Kattegat.”

Fickle memories of a conversation past, _“I could never look upon you with anything other than hate, as long as you are the one with all the power and I’m relegated to following your commands, Ivar.”_

Still, you ignore the implications, you ignore the traitorous thought that he listened and complied, you ignore the foolish hope that there’s freedom in this madness, and you reply, “I don’t want to be.”

“You’d rather just be my wife?” He chuckles, “Don’t lie to me, Priestess. You were made to rule, to command. Don’t pretend otherwise with me.”

You grit your teeth, but don’t refute what he says. If he is to force the title of wife upon you, the title of Queen won’t be as heavy.

He nods to himself, a strange calmness, a jarring relief, guiding his movements as he stands up leaning on the crutch and signals a goodbye as he marches for the door to his quarters. You shouldn’t feel cold when you are left alone at the table, but you do.

You call his name before he can leave you behind, and stand up on shaky legs as you face the man that has condemned you to a fate worse than death.

“I want to talk with…with the women.” You state with as much confidence as you can muster while the world caves under your feet and the darkness of bindings threatens your every breath.

“What women?”

“The…the Völur. I saw them, I saw h-her.”

The Viking frowns, “She will not help you escape,” He warns, “She’s a woman of the Gods, it is not in her power to bend fate.”

 _Fate._ The thought scratches at the edges of your mind, the idea that the Gods somehow interfered so that you and Ivar would meet dreadful and intriguing all at once.

Still, in all his madness he is right. Whether the Gods interfered or not, the same way it was fate you survived Eleusis it is fate you are now at this King’s mercy. Fighting against fate leads you only away from the Gods and towards misery.

A scattered thought tells you misery is already here, but you snuff it out. You know this could be worse, you know this is mercy even if King Ivar has none.

So, you offer, “You know what your people think of me. She will be the only one not to fear or dread me,” You offer honestly, blinking quickly and forcing yourself to find his eyes, “It’s…the closest thing to normal that I have right now,” And it hurts your pride, your throat, your blood; but you force the word past your lips, “Please.”

“Fine,” He concedes after not much thought. When he looks at you, considering you for a few moments as he seems to make another choice, his eyes are unwavering and certain as they force you to hold his gaze, “But you will go tomorrow, tonight we’ll…eat together, and talk.”

You nod again, even if he has proven he doesn’t need your approval or consent for anything he does.


	10. Chapter 10

It is early in the morning that the King himself is at the doorstep of the small home you were designated to sleep in, waiting to take you to the Völva. You both spend the trek in silence, and arrive at the somewhat well-appointed looking home relatively soon.

Before you enter, he stops you with a call of your name.

“Nothing has to change,” He starts, and you bite your tongue so you can let him continue, “You are still a free woman, freer than many.”

“This is not the freedom I want,” You state, more calmly than you expected. After a breath, looking into his eyes, you whisper in a voice so soft it almost sounds like an apology, “I will fight this. I will fight you.”

“You told me you Greeks believe in Fate.”

“I do. It brings forth misery to fight it,” You shrug, “But I am already miserable.”

You turn your back to him and ready yourself to face the Varangian witch, but the King’s hand on your upper arm stops you. The gentleness, the uncertainty in his grip, it startles you.

“You could be happy here.” Ivar whispers, eyes searching your own for something you don’t think he’ll find.

“Not while I’m not free, Ivar.” You sentence, before shrugging off his touch and walking into the Völva’s home.

The woman has her hair and part of her face covered by a dark hood, and toys with a wand as she watches you enter.

The room smells of burnt herbs and smoke, of honey and snowdrops, but you walk confidently inside, feeling nothing but comfort as the warmth and scent of the home embrace you.

Without prompting, the seeress smiles, and you catch sight of lines of runes tracing her pale skin, and whispers your name.

Your eyes go swiftly to the King at your side, a question written in your eyes of whether he has told her your name.

“Your name was not amongst the things he shared, Greek,” The woman speaks, startling you even if her voice is soothing. You turn to face her and find her clear eyes on Ivar, so you say nothing. She bows her head in greeting, “King Ivar.”

He only nods in response, eyes intently on hers, as if relaying a message you cannot know about. After a moment, he turns to you,

“You will meet me in the main hall afterwards.”

Your compliance hurts at your pride as you nod your head, “It will be so.”

He leaves with a shuffle of dragged feet and stabs of his crutch on the floor, but after a few breaths go by, the home is silent but for the cracking of the fire.

You turn to the Völva again, hands clasped tightly in front of you.

“I want-…I would hope you would know of my fate.”

“Your fate?” She repeats, motioning for you to take a seat in front of her. You do so without much hesitation, crossing your legs under your body and sitting on the ground. “If you wish certainties about your future you could ask the Seer.”

“I want to know of my…past, of…whether the Gods truly led me here.” You offer her, keeping your gaze on her pale one even if your expression contorts into an almost grimace.

“You are here, are you not?” A twinge of irritation at her cryptic answer fills your heart, and she seems to notice, for the woman laughs quietly to herself, shaking her head. After a breath, she says, “We do not choose our fate. Our fate is what guides us, what forges our path. Is that not what your Gods say as well?”

“It…is,” You offer, reluctantly, biting down your combination of disappointment and dread. Hesitating, you add, “If the Gods sent me here…Freyja would not have been the one to do so.”

Although the Völva frowns in a mix of affront and confusion, she says nothing as she selects a few herbs and sticks from various pouches.

You watch her in silence, and she straightens with a small mix in her closed fist. With a gesture, she asks for your hand, which you offer after a breath of hesitation.

The herbs she places in your open palm are mostly familiar, the ones that are not you assume to be the strong and stubborn ones that grow in this land of cold. She gestures for the fire, telling you silently to add them to the pit.

You do so keeping careful eyes on her, a thousand questions you dare not ask in your eyes for her to see. She chooses not to answer those questions, and instead starts,

“Freyja is more than beauty and love, she is war and death as well.”

_That sounds familiar._

“What are you trying to say?”

She doesn’t answer, and you start to think people in Kattegat just don’t like answering questions. She twirls one of her rings with her thumb as she considers you in silence, before finally breaking it,

“Does what brought you here, what didn’t, truly matter?”

“Your King put chains on my wrists and dragged me all the way here. Yes, it matters.” You reply without hesitation, eyes narrowed.

The Völva only nods to herself, and regards you calmly.

“So you resent him, for capturing you.”

“Of course I do!”

“What are you going to do about it?” She presses then, pointedly leaving her wand by her seat and dropping to the ground in front of you, sitting as your equal, “Will you maim him? Kill him?”

You draw back, eyes wide at her words, “Excuse me?”

“You know you can,” She is quick to dismiss, adding to your affronted expression. She lifts one eyebrow, “A witch doesn’t lie to another, little one.”

You could, she is right. And you could do many things with the knowledge you have, with the place you have been put in. But you won’t, you made that choice long ago without even realizing it was a choice.

“H…wh-…I won’t.”

“Why?”

“Why do you ask me this?” You ask instead, but you fear you have already given her an answer.

“Tis not just his will keeping you here,” The woman offers as if obvious. You eye her warily, and she shrugs, “What is it, then? Morality? Your Gods? Something else?”

Instead of answering her question directly, you lift your chin and promise, “I have marched to my death to avoid chains before, I would do it again.”

“Are chains truly what he wants to set upon you?” She replies without a beat of hesitation, drawing your gaze sharply back to hers with a thousand questions about what she truly knows about the madness that has plagued your life written in your eyes. As expected, she gives away nothing, but still offers, “We choose how fate changes us, and we _choose_ what we call chains, and what we call freedom.”

“That feels like defeat.”

“But it tastes sweet, doesn’t it?” She prompts, and you are starkly reminded of holding on to a heavy fruit in your hands, taking a bite out of the group of seeds and looking up at the elder, wondering why the fruit of the dead tastes so sweet. The Völva offers you a small smile, “Run if you want to, fight, kick, scream. Fate will drag you home by the wrists, child. You know how this tale goes. The chariot’s pace will tear the world asunder as darkness goes looking for you.”

“How do you-…?”

The Völva stands up abruptly, dusting off her hands on her long dress. “Now, I heard you have a gift for healing.”

You shake off your stupor, and say, “Years of practice rather than a gift, really.”

The woman smiles, looking at you from the corner of her eye,

“Every gift comes after dedication,” She sentences, before walking further into her home. You stay rooted in your spot, and hear her talk to you from wherever she went to, “I trust you are itching for a chance to put yourself to use, aren’t you?”

“You mean helping the healers?” You ask, wide-eyed, “I-I couldn’t, I’m not…”

“The King made you a free woman, did he not?” She asks, purposeful strides bringing her to you again. You nod dumbly, and she offers you a simple belt with a few small pouches tied to its sides. “Then make a choice with this freedom of yours, child. What do you want to do?”

_Sieghild offers you the hilt of the sword, but you step back from it, a frown starting to form on your face._

_“You need to learn to protect yourself, little one,” The shieldmaiden insists, moving the arm holding the sword to bring attention to it again, “You have Spartan blood, you will make a fine shieldmaiden.”_

_“I…don’t want to be.” You stutter out, surprising both of you._

_The redhead lifts her eyebrows and her green eyes are prodding when they search your expression, but she flips the sword and approaches you._

_“What do you want to be, then?”_

_“You are asking me?” You bite out, but she is not angered by your defensive tone. She just smiles, the ink in her face stretching with her skin._

_“Tis important you make your own choices, little one. A shieldmaiden like me, a priestess like your mother, a leader like your father. What do you want to be?”_

_“A healer?” You ask, before shaking your head to yourself. Resolute, you square your shoulders and look up at the Varangian, “I want…I want to be a healer.”_

_Not like mother, not like father, not like anyone._

“But, uh, making my own choices…it is not so easy, is it?” You ask before you can stop yourself, even if you are outstretching your hands to have the belt placed on them.

“Why not?” She presses, hands adorned with silver rings and bracelets closing over yours and enclosing your fingers around the leather belt. “The making of a choice is easy, easier than you want it to be. What’s not easy is dealing with the consequences of it, and what the choice we made says about us.”

“I am not free to choose.” You reply stubbornly, but the woman just lifts her eyebrow.

“Because the King wants you at his side?” You answer with a half-hearted shrug of affirmation, and the witch looks into your eyes with a small smile on her lips. “Who made the choice to come here?”

“I did.”

She lifts her eyebrows, prompting you to say something else, but you give away nothing. The witch takes a deep breath and offers a mocking smile, a smile that speaks of a young spirit even if there’s wrinkles around her clear eyes.

“Hm. You Greek Völur are not so bright, are you?” She waves off your words before you can say anything, “Now come, I will take you to the healers, Kattegat could use someone like you.”

But you cling to the meaning behind her previous words, “Are you saying your King obeys my commands?”

“I’m saying you are not the only one bound, although by different threads.” You narrow your eyes, but she walks out before you can ask anything else.

____

The women eye you with suspicion as you start grinding the herbs together, your eyes set on your task even if curiosity begs for you to take in the room around you.

For what you managed to see as you were brought in, before the almost hostile glances thrown your way discouraged you from not hiding your foreign status, the entire house feels like a paradise compared to the small and temporary working spaces you managed in your time in the Roads. The dried herbs hanging by the windshields, the jars of liquids you dare not ponder on, the crates of what you assume to be new products brought in by the merchants, the small vials presented neatly in the shelves; it all sends you back to a time surrounded by the smell of medicine and the comforting satisfaction of serving your Gods.

Now it has been years since the last sacrifice, months since the last time you could stop to discuss trivial things with Sieghild as you worked on remedies for an ailing village or presses to aid a small army. It has been too long since you have felt at ease.

You sit on a rug on the floor, stone mortar between your crossed legs as you continue to work, thanking the Gods for the countless moons travelling the Roads that gave you knowledge on how to handle herbs and make the tonics and potions.

“Where are you from, witch?” The woman finally asks, and you lift your gaze to find her eyes set on you as she works methodically separating a batch of dried rosemary. Her hands are rough, her face weathered, but the life behind her clear eyes takes your mind away from the question of her age and into the question of her survival.

“The Mediterranean.”

“Exotic now, eh?” She teases, and a couple of others join in laughter. It makes you grit your teeth, but you say nothing as you lower your gaze to your work again. The woman clears her throat and speaks again, “You were captured by the Saxons, I heard.”

“Yes, we were…forced to follow them. They found me and my people after my city burned to the ground.”

The words burn in your throat as they pass, the empty and direct retelling of years of suffering and fear and pain summarized in a few words making your heart ache.

But you realize it does not matter if you tell that the Saxons found you starving and cold near Macedonia, or that you watched the man you thought you’d marry die in your arms, or that your people are now doomed to die or be conscripted to fight in wars not their own again.

It doesn’t matter, because it still leads to here. If only we could change the past by telling a different tale.

A few beats of silence follow your words, and it is probably due to the venom, the vitriol, the fury in your tone that the Viking woman offers,

“If you haven’t bled, there’s a remedy to aid with that,” This time, when you lift your gaze to her, you do not see malice or mocking, you see the understanding of a woman that has been through the same hell as many others. “Frigg knows the world does not need more Saxon bastards in it.”

“I…there’s no need. Thank you.” You offer instead, the bitterness of having to feel grateful for this small mercy making your heart sour.

The conversation quickly dies after that, and you hate the awareness that the reason behind the uncomfortable ambient is your presence. It’s after Helios’ chariot has moved quite far in the sky that someone engages with you again.

A lithe woman of dainty features takes a seat at your side, her own mortar held in her hands.

Her blonde curls remind you of the depictions of Helen of Troy you saw in the theater as a child. But her eyes, even in their softness as they gaze at you, hold a venom like you have scarcely seen.

 _Melinöe_ , your heart whispers. Dual Goddess of light and dark, madness to weak men, comfort to fearful women, Mistress of nightmares and dreams.

They may not believe in your Gods, but these people carry them in their hearts regardless.

“Word has already started to spread about why you are here, witch,” She starts, what you could mistake for pride shining in her expression, “Dare I ask if the rumors about you bewitching the King are true?”

Her voice is quiet, dainty, but…

Something irks you, although you still keep your expression neutral as you answer.

“I have no hold over him.”

“I do not believe that,” She says, leaning to grab another batch of dried Feverfew and Chamomile, handing you half of it so you both continue grinding. When you frown, refusing her extended hand as she offers you the leaves, she smiles, “It’s alright. I know why you are here.”

“You do?”

“A woman is always closer to understanding the wills of the Gods than any man, after all.”

“We are?” You ask, feeling stupid at the way you are just repeating the same questions back at her. But you feel something off about her, about this; you feel scared and raw at having to make the choice of whether or not you should take the handful of dried herbs she offers.

The blonde nods with a hum, and you eye her cautiously, but take the still extended handful of herbs, and so she continues, “The Gods lead us, but don’t push us. The Norns don’t force us to bend, we choose to.”

“You think I chose this?” You ask in a low hiss, lifting your hands for her to see the still pink marks the shackles left on your wrists. Her blue eyes travel there, and lift back to yours quickly, but you see a new darkness lurking there.

Still, she smiles, “That’s something you must answer yourself. And if you may listen to my advice: what men like Ivar the Boneless need you to be, you become. Do not feel shame, we do what we must to survive.”

_“That boy. He wants your hand, child.” Sieghild starts, her presence comforting at your back even if you know her green eyes are inspecting your threading with precision._

_“And he will have it, once he gives me the victory I am owed.”_

_She laughs, “No small dowry.”_

_“I never said it was.”_

_You return to your work in silence soon enough, wondering to yourself what is the point of making cloth when you won’t survive to see the next month most likely._

_Sieghild’s hand in your shoulder stops you, and you turn to look into her motherly gaze. Her all-seeing eyes tell you she knows what you have promised Narses if he is to follow you, if he is to put his men at your disposal._

_She knows what you ask out of the Strategus, and she knows what you have promised in exchange._

_“Do you love him, little one?”_

_Returning your eyes to the now uneven threading, you swallow past the knot of pain and uncertainty in your throat, “I love my people.”_

So, when you turn to the young woman at your side, her blue eyes at the same time innocent and perverse, you cannot find it in yourself to pretend you do not understand the fire behind her gaze.

“You speak from experience, I assume?” You ask instead.

“I have escaped death by placing the right words in the right ears, yes.”

“I do not fear death.”

“But you fear failure,” She states, and your silence is her answer. She chuckles, darkly, proudly, “Your ambition carried you far.”

The blonde girl stays at your side as you work with poultices, infusions, and tinctures to help the wounded and the feverish.

And when work becomes methodical and you both work on stitching, setting bones back into place, bandaging scraps; you and her exchange tales, secrets, lies.

“What’s your name, witch?” She asks as you pass her a bowl of water to wash her hands.

You hesitate for a moment, searching her blue gaze, before finally deciding what’s real and what’s not, what’s dangerous and what’s not, doesn’t matter that much when life seems to be a nightmare.

So, you tell her, and she smiles, nodding in silent gratitude.

“I’m Freydis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fruit of the dead mentioned here is supposed to be pomegranates, which represent temptation and a lot of other things but, as per Persephone’s myth, they are the fruit of the dead as well.


	11. Chapter 11

The King is too busy to demand your presence at his side more than a few scarce times a day, so you are free of the reminder of the new set of chains that are to be set upon you soon.

Still, it’s only two days since your… _fate_ was sealed that you find yourself once again unmoored by the King’s whims and impossible to understand desires.

Helios has barely stated crossing the skies when you are roused from sleep, your heart beating the pace of a rabbit and images of a woman smiling behind a red veil haunting you with their etherealness, your mind not being able to latch onto what the Gods tried telling you.

When you are sent out to collect some crates of herbs and spices from a merchant that arrived the night before, you catch sight of, more than the usual curious or distrusting eyes set upon you, a single eyed man following your moves.

You turn to catch him, and he doesn’t bother pretending not to be following you. The white-haired man is a sight you recognize as one of the King’s warriors, and realization falls upon you.

Not only do you have people stationed outside of the home you sleep in, or soldiers bound to move you from place to place at the King’s whims, but you have men dedicated to following you when you walk around.

The old warrior probably senses your anger and unasked questions, and walks past you towards the crates you left on the ground, picking them up with ease.

“I’m here in case you try something…ill-advised.”

“Like working?”

“Like escaping.” He supplies, chuckling amusedly when you wrestle the crates from his arms with a huff.

Furrowing your lips, you stalk your way back to the apothecary. You could swear the old man makes his footsteps heavier on purpose as he walks behind you.

Almost half a day later one of the elders is teaching you -more patiently than you deserve- how to make a poultice to stop a wound from bleeding when the door opens suddenly, startling you from your work.

You watch with wide eyes as the King walks into the small shop, and judging by the sharp intakes of breath, the mutters and stares, the rest of the women are as surprised as you.

He still hasn’t announced his deranged plan to make you his wife, or at least hasn’t announced it to anyone that would start a rumor, for -thankfully enough- to the people of this kingdom you seem to be another freed slave, another merchant from a faraway land.

“Priestess.” Ivar calls out, and you walk from behind one of the half-walls, greeting him with the same taunt.

“Viking.”

“What are you still doing here?” He asks, pale eyes looking over the shop with disinterest.

You frown, recalling the anger that coursed through you earlier today, “Was I to be in my cell?”

He frowns, a furrow in his nose, “You are not a prisoner.”

“Then why are there armed men following me?” You fire back, quickly.

“Is there any other way to get you to do as I say?” He shoots back, the same taunt as that day in the docks, with Stithulf’s -his- chains around your wrists.

“I don’t think you really want me obedient, my King.” You dare say, and the smile you offer him reminds you of the one you used to sport before, when you felt free and safe. Right before starting the sprint to cross the fast spring on a jump, your hair wild and feet bare, your heart beating fast in equal parts fear and excitement.

When he limps closer to you, you remain in your place and look into his eyes, aware the King can sense your quickened breaths and rapid heart, but hoping he mistakes lust for fear.

A part of you that starved amongst the flowers of Eleusis rejoices in the risk, the thrill of it all.

And when you smile, you draw Ivar’s gaze to the curve of your mouth. And when his tongue runs over his lower lip, you realize you are not the only one whose breath is quickened.

“You will do as I say.” He orders lowly, through gritted teeth even if his eyes are still trained on your lips.

“You will stop treating me like a prisoner,” You offer back, the despair of having nothing to lose emboldening you more than you thought possible. And even if the words feel like poison, you finish, “And I will obey.”

“No,” He admits after a few moments of silence, voice barely a murmur, blue eyes travelling over your face and exposed skin, “I don’t think I want you to.”

“What do you want, then?” You ask, your voice just as hushed.

His eyes settle on yours, always angry and of course determined, but carrying now a hint of the almost-softness, of the hesitation, you believe you saw in those days spent in Aneridge.

He leans closer, voice quiet by your ear, “I want to offer an arrangement.”

“An arrangement.”

“Meet me tomorrow, and every day after that, Priestess,” He says, his voice carrying with authority even if the glint in his eyes almost begs you to defy him again. “Have all your meals with me.”

“Why do you ask this of me?”

“I told you, Priestess, you and I are not done talking,” He says, eyes searching yours, “In exchange, I will…loosen the chains.”

“I thought guests had no chains.”

“My guests do,” He dismisses, making irritation flare within you. Eyes searching yours, he presses, “They will come find you tomorrow, take you to me. You will have your day meal alone with me.”

“Are you ordering me to? Or asking?” You whisper back, pulling back so you can see his face. There’s a twitch of irritation, the very clear sign of gritted teeth, and a flare of something impulsive and that begs for a show of cruelty in his pale eyes; but he seems to hold himself back.

“I’m asking.” The King grits out finally. You allow yourself a small smile of triumph, that feels a little too genuine when you remind yourself who you are dealing with.

“Alright. I shall see you tomorrow then.”

The King smirks, and when he pulls away you recall the phantom feeling of his burning warmth and feel cold, but say nothing.

When the white-haired man closes the door forcefully behind him, you feel the eyes of every woman on you. You push yourself away from the table you were almost sitting on while the King pushed you into it, standing on shaking legs and trying to bring your breathing back to normal.

“That’s a first.” One of the women quips, a tall and blonde woman you notice carries the strut and posture of a warrior.

“A first what?” You ask cautiously.

“A first time that someone survives being that _unbearably stupid_ ,” She states, startling a laugh out of one of the others. You allow yourself a small smile, and the woman pats your back with quite a bit of strength. “You ought to be more careful, girl. Why do you test the man so?”

You can offer nothing but a sheepish grimace. She sighs, but there’s light in her eyes.

“At least we know the witch has a Viking side to her. No soft-hearted Greek would look into Ivar the Boneless’ eyes with that kind of anger.” Other quips from her place sorting one of the newest shipments of herbs and spices.

“Anger? Oh, that wasn’t anger, child.” An elder says with a laugh, directing a knowing side-glance to you. You pretend focusing on grinding Yarrow to avoid giving her an answer, although you fear your silence gave her one.

Conversation switches to the strange wares an Ottoman merchant has brought in as one of the elders starts distributing the bowls of food amongst the women, and it feels like being next to the fire on one of the cabins in the Silk Roads, Sieghild at your side guiding your hands to make arrows correctly.

You catch the eyes of the Völva on you while you are supping, and the gifted woman offers you a small nod of recognition and something else, but says nothing. You can still feel her gaze on you throughout the night.

When you go to bed, you catch tendrils of something you cannot quite place making you feel uneasy, but dismiss it and close your eyes hoping sleeps claims you soon.

Somewhere in the middle of the night you awaken with a jolt, the unfamiliar feeling of weight settling in your bed drawing a gasp out of your mouth. You catch a glimpse of blonde curls and blue eyes you know well, even if you don’t trust their intentions fully, and lay back down, looking up at the ceiling.

The faint smell of mint fills your nose as Freydis settles on your side. It feels like a tendril of a voice, the way the smell makes something odd and bitter blossom in your chest; but you cannot place your finger on what it could mean.

“You are a fool,” The girl chastises as she lays on your bed, leaving almost no space between the two of you. You grit your teeth and roll your eyes, but say nothing. She presses, “You should learn to play better, witch.”

This makes you rise from your bed, one of your hands supporting your weight as you sit and the other holding the sheets to your chest as your upper body leans towards the girl.

Playing games kept you from freedom once too many times.

Fooling Narses into believing you loved him broke your own heart, but you always assumed when the war was over and you were -most likely- dead, it wouldn’t matter.

But it did matter, and playing games chained you. To be an Anassa when all you wanted to do was run, to be a betrothed when you wanted to be your own before anyone’s, to be part of a Saxon’s army when you wanted to bleed every Christian for all they were worth.

Maybe playing games is the reason you are here today, a slave to a mad King’s whims and delusions.

“I know how to play, Freydis, I choose not to. One of the last choices I am able to make.” You bite back, the painful words uneasy in your tongue even as you bare your teeth in a snarl.

But the girl does not falter, her hand closing over yours where it rests on the bed, and her eyes certain when they meet yours,

“You have a chance to be what some only dream of, remember that.”

 _How much does she truly know?_ You narrow your eyes, wondering who could know of Ivar’s promises and demands other than you and the Gods themselves.

A part of you wants to tell her that if it is your place under Ivar the Boneless’ boot what she wants, she can gladly take it; but no, you don’t think that’s what she wants.

After considering her in silence for a few moments, you gently take your hand out of her grasp.

“I am sorry, but you and I dream of very different things,” You mutter, laying back down on the bed, “Being a voice in a madman’s ear is not what I aim to be.”

“A means to an end, witch.” She reminds you quietly, but you are shaking your head before she is even done speaking.

“Not by my means, I’m afraid.”

____

Your eyes narrow at the food placed before you, with what looks to be blueberries but not quite sprinkled inside the soft and creamy mixture.

“Priestess.” The King calls out, and when you lift your gaze you find him already watching you, something like exasperated curiosity in his pale gaze.

You offer a shrug and return your gaze to your plate, “I don’t know what this is.”

“Food,” He supplies dryly, offering you a downturned mouth as if ti say it’s true when you glare at him. After taking a bite out of what looks like a strange kind of bread, he supplies, “ _Färskost_.”

You still have no idea what that means, but you nod and try the cream that tastes vaguely of cheese, and the berries that are not quite the ones of your home but surely taste like them.

You test the syllables in your tongue as you mix in more berries. A sudden huff of choked laughter startles you and you lift your gaze back to the Viking.

Before saying anything, he takes a drink from his cup, but you see the mocking smile on his lips.

“It wasn’t that bad.” You defend yourself, almost offended even if your lips want to curve into a smile as well.

“Sure.” He promises, boyish smile still on his lips, and you could swear a small chuckle leaves his lips -this time true, honest, instead of mocking or mischievous- when you roll your eyes at him.

“ _Váll’ eis kórakas_.” You mutter.

“What does that mean?”

“You are a smart man, you surely know.” You tell him instead, raising your chin with what you know is an annoying display of arrogance.

“Witch, I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” The Prince, the man you recognize as Hvitserk, calls out as he approaches the both of you, easy smile on full lips. Stealing a glance to his brother, he adds, “I have to admit, you look much more alluring adorned in silk rather than chains.”

You recognize the jab at his brother even if you have none to speak of, and it is foolish protectiveness that makes you smile but still reply,

“It takes a smart man to see beauty in either way, they say.”

His surprise is written in the raise of his eyebrows, but his eyes shine with mirth; and where Ivar may have shown anger at your response, he only breathes a laugh.

“Not only beauty, it seems.”

You incline your head as a show of gratitude for the compliment, easy smile still on your lips even if it carries a bit of falsehood to it. You were never one to like pleasantries.

“Did you do as you were told to?” Ivar interrupts, leaning back in his seat and bringing a cup to his lips.

“My scouts say Ubbe will arrive in two weeks.” Hvitserk offers as an answer, but it is apparently not enough for the younger Viking.

“Will you finally cower and sail back to Dublin with him?”

It is with a sigh the other man answers, “I don’t know, Ivar. Clearly Kattegat has nothing I should stay for, so I might as well.”

The King raises his cup over his head, as if gesturing towards his brother, and though there’s nothing nonchalant in the gesture, he makes it appear so.

“And you have my blessing to do so! Why don’t you go ahead and find a Saxon woman to marry, like Sigurd?” His eyes narrow, “Might as well disappoint the Gods, like you disappoint father’s memory.”

“You think father would be proud of you?” The other man accuses, stepping closer.

“At least I’ve achieved something. I have my fame, a fame that will one day be even greater than father’s,” Ivar boasts, squaring his shoulders as his gaze defies Hivtserk’s, “What have you done, other than following others?”

“I’ve kept you from going to war with your own blood. I’ve prevented our brothers from killing you like they wanted to,” The Prince hisses, and at the vitriol in his tone you take your eyes from his enraged face to look at the King, who meets his eyes unwaveringly. “I kept Ubbe from killing you like you almost killed Sigurd.”

“Shut your mouth!”

The way the King’s hand quickly goes to the axe at the table, eyes furious like you have never seen before as they meet his brother’s, you have a feeling he was not supposed to bring that up.

Prince Hvitserk steals a glance to you, maybe gauging your reaction, maybe telling you to run, maybe asking for help. You remain still regardless.

“What will you do with that, Ivar?” Hvitserk dares, motioning to the axe on the table with his head. His eyes are hard but in the way he stands you see he is not certain about how this will unfold.

With a knot of uncertainty and tension in your chest, you keep your eyes jumping between the Prince and the King, waiting with baited breath to see what happens.

You remember when Narses laid his army at your feet, when he agreed to have his men fight the Saracens the way you told him to. You remember that thrill, that thrumming under your skin, that certainty that you held power unlike any other in the palm of your hand.

That was nothing, _nothing_ ¸ compared to the feeling of having those two armies crash against one another, the raiders and the defenders, the Saracens and the Attics, the enemies and the allies. Feeling the ground shake under your feet as they advanced, hearing the sound of war, witnessing the clash of the warriors; nothing compared to it, nothing taught you more of power than that first battle.

And in the stretched-thin stillness of the room, as the two brothers face one another, you cannot help but think about how similar it is to the moment the marching armies clash.

But with an irritated huff and leaning his body back onto the chair Ivar ends it before it can even begin. The Prince relaxes his stance as well, grunting something to himself before he takes a seat in the long table.

He doesn’t take his eyes of his brother though, not even as he calls your name.

Without waiting for you to respond, he says, “Whitehair will show you to your rooms. Go, and I’ll call for you later.”

“I have my own room?” You ask before you can stop yourself, and his eyes meet yours. The simmering rage you see in them startles you, but it doesn’t scare you even though you know it should.

“You are not a prisoner, are you?”

“This is not what I asked for.” You tell him lowly, even though you are already standing up from your seat.

“This is all you are getting.” He promises cruelly, and you are dismissed with but a gesture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And what she says in Greek is a curse that I think is in Aristophanes, meaning “To the crows”, but that can be translated as a way of saying go fuck yourself, and I think it’s beautiful lmao. It has to do with the desecration of the dead bodies by the crows and all that, apparently.


	12. Chapter 12

“Tell me about your Gods.” Ivar orders one night, moving with a slight wince of pain to settle better in his seat.

This is one of the first times he has tried to talk to you as if you are anything other than the foreign witch he has chained to his side in more ways than one, and you should take advantage of that, you know you should.

To your best interests, you should be lying to him, you should have been lying since the day you crossed Kattegat’s walls. You should have lied, from the very beginning.

You should have lied, you should have used lust, anger, curiosity to your favor. You should have taken advantage of the cautious hope in his eyes, of the hidden fear he has of being left alone.

A better woman might have. A better Anassa, a better Greek. A better witch.

But not you.

You narrow your eyes, and when you consider Ivar’s spoiled request you cannot keep the words from leaving your lips even if you tried.

“I am not a pet, eager to entertain my captor.” You point out.

“I am not your captor, because you are not a prisoner.” He argues without hesitation, certain in his madness.

“Am I free to leave this room then?” You taunt, surprising yourself.

You could swear somewhere, maybe even from her Folkvangr, Sieghild is yelling at you to shut your mouth and count your losses. You can almost hear the curses and threats on her part.

King Ivar stares at you in cold anger for a moment, and you see the telltale move of him gritting his teeth in annoyance before he motions for the chair, “If you entertain me, I will consider it.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” You push. Sieghild was right, you would have been killed so many years ago if you had been left alone without her. Gods above, you need to learn to shut up. If only the part of your mind that realizes you shouldn’t open your mouth were to speak before your own mouth does, that would be delightful. With your chin in your hand, you ask, “What do you wish to know?”

He asks about Hades, of course he does. And you tell him about the God’s might, how he came to rule over the Underworld, his gift with the dead and with fortune.

When he asks, you tell him about his dealings with mortals, and how he rarely leaves his Kingdom, but the Viking is not content with your answers, it seems.

“You are hiding something from me.” He points out, seriously and without hesitation. You frown, startled, but in your voice there’s the hint of a smile when you answer,

“What makes you think so?”

“You pick and choose at the tales of your Gods you tell, Priestess, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“There’s many tales, many stories, about the Gods. Explaining them to an outsider is difficult.” You defend yourself even if you taste the half-truth in your tongue. Facing the stories of old, facing the legends told to you by your mother and father, it brings out a strange nostalgia in you, a strange dread that makes you think you have lost the war you started in Eleusis long before you called your fellow Greeks to arms.

“You are an outsider to me.” He points out, eyebrows lifted and gaze challenging. Whether that’s a rebuttal to your point by returning the same title, or a remark that he has chosen to ignore the obvious differences between the two of you, you don’t truly know.

“Tell me some tales of yours, then.” You offer, betraying a small smile.

_Let’s be something other than outsiders._

You know how foolish you are being, walking into the trap even with your eyes wide open, but there’s a beat in your heart that speaks of madness, of thrill, of _something_ when you face the Viking.

But Ivar shakes his head, startling you and making your stomach drop for a moment. The realization you were trusting enough to long for closeness to the monster that captured and imprisoned you makes you ashamed.

He motions to you before pressing his fingers to his mouth, “I want to speak your language first.”

You raise your eyebrows, “It takes years to master Greek, my King.”

“I’m a fast learner, and you have nowhere else to go.”

“Fine.” You sigh, getting comfortable in your chair. Thinking for a moment on what you could teach him first, you grab onto the pendant hanging from your neck and show him the inscription.

He doesn’t consider the letters though, rough fingers reaching up and almost touching your own as he turns the circular piece back around, looking at the engraving of the twelve Olympians and the Gods of the Underworld.

“What is this?”

His face is so close to yours that you can -and a part of you wants to- lose yourself in the specks of blue of his eyes. It unsettles you, more because you don’t want to move away when you know you should.

And it is the honesty, the open curiosity that shine in his blue eyes that disarms you, that makes you lose the tight hold you have on control. Your breath stutters its way past your parted lips, and you pray he doesn’t notice, eyes searching his as you beg your tongue to give an answer.

“An old gift, it represents the Gods.” You reply, not wanting to delve into it for fear of having nostalgia clog at your throat.

“From whom?”

Of course he would ask. You take a deep breath, betraying a small, sad smile on your lips.

“My father gifted this to my mother the day they were to be married,” You explain softly, and realize after a heartbeat that he knows of your mother’s story, because you told him. When you were just a Priestess and he was just a Viking, you told him of your mother’s plight, of her resistance and of her defeat. It gives you a certain calm, to know he knows what it means to you. Turning the pendant back around, you insist on the inscription, tracing over a word well-known for both your Gods and his, “ _Moirai,_ Fates.”

“ _Moirai_.” Ivar tests it in his tongue, harsh and rough on his untrained lips. Still, the moment of curiosity, of willingness to learn, on his part makes your mouth start to curve into a small smile.

You furrow it before it has the chance to give away your naïve heart.

The moon has almost made her journey all across the skies when you are dismissed by the King who, true to his word, seems to be quick to pick up the easier parts of your tongue.

____

Strange, how even the oddest and most bizarre of scenarios become routines after enough time has passed.

As agreed when the King concluded to not treat you as a prisoner -even if he still does, arguing semantics with a man that almost routinely is covered in blood is not high in your list of priorities- you are called forth to sit by the King’s side each morning and each night.

It is a set of shackles to keep you controlled by the Viking, but you find yourself enjoying his company.

Even if every day that you find yourself laughing alongside the youngest son of Ragnar, or exchanging tales or memories or hopes with him, you find a piece of you burning at the shame of having betrayed the people you promised so much for so long; your foolish heart still finds itself weaving a place in it for Ivar. Just Ivar. Not the King, not the Viking berserker, not your captor, but the man who through scarce glimpses you get to know. Ivar, who the more you know the more you deem a man you could trust rather than the King you thought you’d grow to resent.

As before, he manages to make you despise him as easily as he makes you admire him, hate his forced presence in your day and find yourself missing his voice or his expressive eyes when he’s not there.

You are served a small platter of finger food by one of the thralls, a petite girl of long brown hair, and you pick at what looks like cow liver and heart as you discreetly look over the hall in search of the King.

You don’t have to look for him long, for you hear the people greeting him before you even see him. After a breath, you hear the by now familiar sound of his crutch finding the wooden floor behind you, and he greets you,

“ _Hiereiai_.”

The smile on your lips is foolish but free, and you surprise yourself when don’t try to school it as you turn around on your seat to face him. Noting he used the plural form of your title, you shake your head.

“ _Hiereia_ ,” You correct, “There’s only one of me.”

His eyebrows rise and mouth curves into a side smile, expression dripping mirth as he mumbles,

“Thank the Gods. I don’t know what I would do more than one of you.”

You scoff at him as he takes his seat, rolling your eyes.

“As if you could be so lucky,” You dismiss, earning a breath that once could have been a laugh. As it is your new and strange routine, you look over the table and find a dish that looks unfamiliar. Pointing to it, you ask, “This one?”

“ _Osyrat kornbröd_.”

You grab a small piece of the odd-looking bread, tasting it before you repeat the words back to him. He nods in approval, but you have a feeling it is because a week ago, when he mocked your accent when speaking his tongue, you switched to Greek for the rest of the day and frustrated him to no end.

Routine, familiarity like this, you know it should frighten you. You know you should fight, you know you should feel the pressing and suffocating pressure of unwanted binds, but…maybe it was fate after all. Maybe it is as Galla said: the woman that would have been content as an Anassa, as a meek wife, that would be Greek and nothing else; she died when they burned you before that temple, and something else, something wilder, hungrier, was left behind.

Maybe Ivar is right, and it was fate that you ended up here.

You choose not to think of it for now, you choose to ignore the should be’s and just…be. So, a new normal settles in your life.

Sometimes, you dine in the great hall, laughing discreetly at the stories shared by the warriors, or talking with the younger Prince who seems to be the person who wants you dead the least, or -more commonly- seething silently in your seat as you wonder if you could get away with regicide as King Ivar dangles your powerlessness, his hold over you, his control, like who taunts a cat with a piece of string.

Other times, you meet in his quarters, imposing and cold as they are which you always find a way -silent or not- to complain about, or yours, which always brings the question by Ivar as to why you keep insisting on keeping a growing number of plants indoors.

You have to admit, even if your pride refuses to, that you prefer the nights and mornings you sit alone with the King over the ruckus of the main hall. Maybe you are selfish and don’t want to share his attention, maybe your foolish and naïve heart is intrigued by the stories he tells you, maybe.

And almost every night he continues to ask questions about your Gods and the stories you remember about heroes and legends. You know he sees them only as tales, and your situation as you sit beside King Ivar, dining and exchanging words as the night progresses makes you remember the tale of that woman you heard while in Persia, the one that wove tales for years on end to keep a tyrannical King from killing her.

Still, you relay the same words that have been spoken to you once, the naïve child waiting for her mother at Eleusis’ temple and asking all the questions that the world around her prompted.

There was a time when you believed the words leaving now your lips would be what your purpose was. Tend to the gardens of the temple, explain young girls the teachings of Persephone and Demeter, relay the ritual proceedings to ask for Hades’ blessing, bask in the music and the joy of Eleusis’ mysteries.

But that was before the blood, before the rust and the clashing of swords. That was before the Emperor’s whim dictated your Gods were no more, dictated your kingdom was his to play with. That was before you realized more than love and happiness, you wanted freedom and war.

_You wouldn’t have ever thought you could stop an army from advancing from just standing still on the road. But it seems a heathen woman frightens these Christians more than anything._

_“You are of noble blood, Constantinople welcomes your family name with open arms!” The Patriarch insists, “Come to the light of God and we will be merciful!”_

_“I have no interest in your_ mercy _,” You bite out, eyes on the old man. “I want my freedom.”_

_“Your soul is prisoner, my child. Abandon these pagan ways an-…”_

_You interrupt him with a laugh, shaking your head, “‘These pagan ways’ built the empire you now live comfortably on. The Gods h-…”_

_The priest’s strike sends you stumbling to the ground, your cheek bleeding from his gold ring. Sharp pain spreads over the side of your face, and when you turn the old man you see the hand he backhanded you with curl into a fist._

_“Do not speak of your false Gods to me, pagan.”_

And even now, relaying the tales of your people to a King that knows nothing of your Gods, a weight in your chest seems to lighten, as if the stories gathered by your memory in all these years have been begging for air all this time.

Demeter’s suffering demands to be told again so that the world does not forget a mother’s love, Persephone’s resilience remains a safe haven in the storm of war and death, Hades’ courage and determination a testament to the ruthlessness of what a King ought to be.

And you allow yourself a small smile as you dine surrounded by foreign words and runes and customs. Sieghild was right all those years ago, when she found a crying child and made her a daughter: The Gods remain with you. 

____

Before you know it the weeks Hvitserk promised it would take for their brother to arrive at the city has passed, and dragon-headed ships reach the docks.

After Prince Ubbe is welcomed with a feast in the main hall, while he is greeted with warm embraces, loud laughs and smiling faces; while Ivar seems to dwell for a few instants too long on the way his older brother is easily embraced by the people of Kattegat; he calls for his brothers to meet him in private.

You are asked to be there, and with a dead weight on your stomach you realize what this meeting is for.

And as you wait for someone to arrive, long after the warriors that escort you have left the room, you realize with deep shame how unsafe you feel without the vitriolic and unpredictable presence of the King.

“I thought I saw a familiar face in the crowd tonight,” The oldest Prince states as a greeting as pale eyes focus on you. You do not know why he chooses to speak to you in the tongue of the Saxons, maybe he thinks you don’t speak his tongue? “You are Greek. Far from home, aren’t you?”

“Yet I’m here.” You reply quietly, uncomfortable.

He sits across from you, grabbing a goblet and drinking mead, but without taking his piercing eyes off of you.

“My brother doesn’t share,” He states in a low voice, “So _why_ are you here?”

You frown, “I’m sorry?”

“You’re not here for me to fuck, or kill,” He explains, elbows resting heavily on the table before you. “I saw you with Ivar tonight. Why?”

There’s a flash of anger, of ire, of protectiveness in his gaze; and you feel small and alone in the room with him. Your lips part, the familiar feeling of _fear_ settling on your very bones.

“I-I…He wanted me there.”

“I know,” He insists, and when he speaks again his voice is a command, a threat, “Why?”

And the Gods might summon you home to the Underworld the day you let a man succeed at making you fear him. Your blood boils under your skin and you straighten yourself in your seat, finding the Prince’s gaze and narrowing your own eyes.

Whatever it is your lips try to say is quickly interrupted by the now familiar sound of a crutch finding methodically the wooden floor. Ivar and Hvitserk walk into the room discussing something between them, but the former, as if sensing your eyes on him, finds your gaze.

Strange, the new familiarity that has grown in this time spent at his side, that not only can he notice the change in you from your face and posture alone, but that in the slight narrow of his eyes you clearly see the question his voice doesn’t ask.

You offer a slight shake of your head, replying you are alright. He is still guarded and considers his brother in silence as he takes the seat next to you.

After a moment, he turns to you, a small smile on his lips. It feels true, it feels like your own lips want to return one in kind.

The thralls approach with food to set on the table, with all sorts of dishes that after weeks you are growing accustomed to, and small conversations start between the three brothers, leaving you to enjoy the strange peace.

You watch in silence as the oldest of the brothers uses a leg of lamb in his hand to motion as he talks,

“I’ve heard of ships from all over arrive at the docks,” He boasts, and smiles at Hvitserk, “Handling commerce suits you, brother.”

The other man nods, solemn, “I’ve been trying to secure some shipments to Dublin. It will be protected, I promise you.”

But it seems Prince Ubbe doesn’t want to hear about that, judging by the way is expression hardens, his eyes dim to a cold distrust. When they find you across the table, you realize it wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear about his brother’s plans, but rather didn’t want you to hear them.

“Should you talk about this in front of her?”

The question is directed at the King, and you turn rapt attention to him, a knot in the base of your stomach.

He shrugs, bringing a cup to his lips and drinking before answering.

“I don’t see why not, since she is to be Queen of Kattegat.”

Your lips part, a voice in your head screaming _that’s not how you bring up an announcement like that_ , but you stay silent.

“What?” The older prince asks, voice low and raspy, eyes rapt on his brother.

“We are to be married soon,” He explains simply, turning to you and offering you a smirk, “Isn’t that right?”

You take a deep breath through your nose and face the dumbfounded princes.

“Yes,” The words catch in your throat, like a handful of coarse sand keeps them from reaching your tongue. You swallow and state, “I will be-…yes, we are.”

Prince Hvitserk looks between the two of you with a slowly growing smile on his face, but it is not as filled with poison as you thought it would be. It would make a less cautious woman think it is approval what shines in his brown eyes.

“Well…congratulations, brother.”

Ivar accepts the words with a slightly raised cup, but says nothing. You turn your gaze to the older prince. The simmering rage, the contained anger, they startle you and unsettle you way more than bare fury and vitriol ever could.

“Brother, you are not thinking straight,” Ubbe starts, hand gesturing to you. “Does she even know of the Gods? Does she even speak our tongue? You can’t just pick a Christian woman to marry and make a Queen, Ivar!”

“Call me what you will, my Prince, but never a Christian.” You hiss with narrowed eyes, drawing the fury of a man chosen by Father Zeus to you. Still, you hold his gaze.

Ivar chuckles softly, and you turn to him. As expected, he is already looking at you, sharing something in that moment when your eyes meet before he turns to his brother, his smile turning sardonic.

“A woman after my own heart.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips do start forming a small smile without your consent.

Only the younger Prince, Hvitserk, huffs a small laugh as he acquiesces with a small shrug. Ubbe keeps hard eyes on the youngest son of Ragnar.

“You’ll be marrying your enemy.”

“She’s not an enemy.” Ivar insists easily, leaning back on his seat. Still, being questioned about his decision is not something he is taking kindly to, judging by the tight set of his shoulders and the hard glare he directs to Prince Ubbe.

“Ivar…”

“I did not summon you here to ask for your blessing, Ubbe,” He interrupts, hand motioning to you, “She is to be Queen of Kattegat.”

The other man drinks from his cup in what you assume to be an attempt to quell his anger. After a breath, he quips, “The Gods may not be pleased knowing the woman you take as a wife worships false Gods.”

“The Gods may not be pleased with you offering peace in exchange for nothing,” Ivar replies, elbows resting on the table, and though both brothers are confused at what he means, you know exactly what he is talking about, “Before questioning my choices, brother, why don’t you make sure Stithulf has the lands you accepted as payment for surrender?”

Your eyes are wide as you take in the King’s profile, the surprise written all over your face. He speaks certainly, confidently, even though it is only your word he has as proof of Stithulf not being able to pay forth what he promised the Varangians. 

He _trusted_ you.

It makes something within you soften, makes your chest feel a strange warmth. But you push those feelings down and focus on the conversation, hoping the men confuse your surprise for something other than having had Ivar listen and heed your word.

As they discuss the possible truth behind Ivar’s taunt, a thrall refills your cup of mead, and it is the concealed fear in her eyes, the meek posture, the murmured words of respect, what makes you realize what the world is like now.

They treat you like…like Ivar’s consort. Like a…

You drink deeply from your cup, shaking off those words, those…titles.

But that’s what you’ll be, isn’t it? He has already told his brothers, and if there’s something you know about this man past his relentlessness, his ruthlessness, is how much he cares about how others see him, what others see him as. If he is willing to let his blood know of this, nothing short of the Gods themselves will make him change his mind.

Your fate is sealed.

It is hard to hear anything past the ringing in your ears, and for the rest of the night you go through the motions, replying when spoken to, wondering if death truly is worse than chains.

The Princes are dismissed, and you feel burning blue eyes set on you. You turn to face him silently, and he lets his eyes trace over your features before speaking,

“What’s with you, hm?”

You don’t offer an answer, instead asking, “When will you tell your people? About…about the marriage.”

“Why?”

“Your people may not take kindly to a foreign witch ruling over them.” You say quietly, tremulously. Ivar only shrugs.

“They have a cripple sitting on the throne, they won’t be too outraged.”

The same dry humor as _well, lucky for you, they are probably all dead now_ , the same small and proud smile when he makes a quiet laugh leave your lips, the same stupid feeling in your heart as if you were still in Aneridge, just a Priestess and just a Viking.

You roll your eyes with reluctant fondness, a strange warmth spreading over your heart and making for a moment the weight of chains not as heavy. Still, you stand up,

“I think I will retire for the night, if…if it’s alright.”

You hate that you hesitate, you hate that you feel like having to ask for permission. Still, you say nothing else, waiting for his response.

He gestures with his hand, signaling a dismissal and a goodnight.

You ask the tall and white-haired man with the injured eye to take you to the apothecary instead of to your rooms, longing for familiarity. As you slip silently into the sleeping home, you find a lone lit candle by a window, and Freydis smiling and motioning for you to get closer.


	13. Chapter 13

“Word has it that the King has made you a free woman.” The girl whispers, handing you a piece of bread and sitting beside you, looking out at the stars.

“Mhm.”

“We’ve known you were more than a prisoner since the moment you arrived, though.” She quips quietly.

“Oh.” You can only mutter, but the surprise is written in your face.

Freydis smiles, warm and a little cold at the same time, “It is written in the way you walk, witch. You were never a slave, were you?”

“If you are asking if the Saxons kept me a prisoner, the answer is no. That privilege seems to be reserved for your King.” If your last words drip with venom and anger, she does not mention it. You dare think she understands.

“I was. But now, like you, I am free,” Freydis sentences, and this does bring your attention back to her eyes. Depthless blue eyes, perverse and innocent, relentless and broken. When the girl leans closer, you don’t move. Her words are barely a whisper, but carry the strength of the vow you hissed at Stithulf, “Neither you or me will die slaves to men.”

“To whom, then?”

“The Gods. Yours or mine, I do not know,” She answers simply, fierce when she hisses the words at you, “But we mustn’t settle with mortal men. What we have suffered, it has to…mean something. It has to mean we are destined for more, that we _are_ more.”

“Sometimes pain is just pain, Freydis.” You offer quietly, but her mind is set. You wonder for a moment if these thoughts were what made her spirit survive her time as a slave.

“No,” She shakes her head, stubborn, “We are broken because our fate is to be strong, we are…we are defiled because we are to rise above it.”

You roll your eyes, and even if the conversation remains quiet in the dead of night your voice is strong when you argue, “Did Freyja release you from your binds? Will Despoina release me from mine?” The pain lacers at your heart, but you insist, “No. I shall not be thankful for an unending fight to survive.”

“Yet you survive.”

She is not talking about surviving the Byzantine warriors’ almost successful attempt to silence you like they did your mother. She is not talking about surviving the pain of years, centuries, that marks your soul, a pain that Freydis may not know about but understands regardless.

No. She’s talking of the ‘freedom’ you have garnered here in her homeland, of what it means to be a free woman in a world that steps over the ones that cannot fight like men. She is talking of surviving Ivar the Boneless.

As your eyes meet, different stories, different agonies, and different destinies meet as well; but you feel she understands, better than almost anyone, what guided your words, your steps, your promises, that made an army be laid at your feet, to make a mad King set you free.

“King Ivar was the one to free you.” You say quietly, leaning away from the girl. It is not even a question, is a realization. All her words, all her advice…she spoke from experience, more specific experience than you thought.

“He wasn’t a king then.”

A hopeless laugh leaves your lips, “What men like Ivar the Boneless need you to be, you become.” You repeat her words from a few weeks ago, a new meaning to them altogether.

The girl laughs as well, the sound dainty and musical even if it carries iron beneath, “Although now I realize you may have been too arrogant to lie.”

All you can offer her is a shrug and a sigh as you say, “I die on my own terms, with my own face, Freydis.”

“But you didn’t. Die, that is,” She insists, smile on her pale face that you find yourself starting to return in kind. Her hand settles on your knee and she squeezes and you wonder if it is in comfort or something else. “Whatever you are, he wants to keep for himself.”

You say nothing else, turning your gaze back into the sky outside, suddenly reminded of the circumstances that brought you here, of the invisible chains that still remain on you, of how you have failed to become what you ought to.

_If we must, we will die. Resisting, like your mother and I taught you._

And yet you cower and accept scraps of freedom at the first chance you have. Shame and resentment fill your heart, and your mother’s favorite piece of jewelry hanging from your neck feels like a noose when your fingers toy with the old metal.

“Did you seduce him?” Freydis starts suddenly, dragging you away from your thoughts so quickly you find yourself disoriented.

You blink a couple of times before you can answer with anything other than a wordless sound to her question.

“What?”

She shrugs with one of her shoulders, drinking from her own cup of warm milk before explaining, “You earned your freedom, or whatever measure of it that you don’t seem to be happy with. Did you bed him for it?”

It should be insulting, but her clear eyes tell you she does not shame you for it. She seems almost…impressed. It still makes something churn at your insides, and you find yourself hating the world that bound her and made her a slave a little bit more.

“No,” You say, slowly, “Was I expected to?”

 _Did you?_ Is what your words whisper but you don’t dare voice, although you have an inkling that she hears it regardless. Her eyes remain on you for a few moments too long, and the start of a knowing smile curves at her lips.

The girl still shakes her head in response, “I was curious.”

“Why?” If you sound harsh, if what Sieghild calls your ‘Athenian nobility’ is heard in your tone, Freydis does not mention it.

“He wants you, you know that. Half of Kattegat wants you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She shrugs, “Word runs that he has never taken a woman to his bed. Earls have even gifted him noble women and slaves, but he never accepts them.

A part of you wants to ask why she is aware of all this. You remain silent however, looking back out at the stars and wondering why does she believe the King’s cock and its use or lack thereof is something you are interested in discussing.

“It’s not about beauty, the women brought in were the most beautiful I have seen,” She continues on, talking to herself as she recalls, “It’s also not about…power. Most I have seen wouldn’t be sharp-witted enough to try to get something out of him either.”

She seems to be willing to babble on, but a sharp voice interrupts you, no matter how quiet it is.

“Girl,” One of the older women chastises, gaze set on Freydis. “Eyes and ears follow the witch. Be careful.”

You are stunned into silence, as is the girl next to you, and when the quiet of night settles upon you, you can hear the rustling of leather and the deep breaths of soldiers set outside your door.

 _His guest_. You guess to them being a guest just means a looser set of chains, or invisible shackles.

True fear settles in the girl’s pale eyes, and you reach to place a hand in her knee, placating her. The older woman, you do not know her name, motions so that you both move closer to the crackling fire and away from the windows.

“It will do you no good to gossip like this about any son of Ragnar, especially Ivar,” She advices, but a glint in her eye tells you of times in her youth spent just like this. She leans closer, and whispers, “And also, despite the rumors, you must remember he is a hot-blooded young man commanding an army, you oaf.”

“Maybe it’s about control,” The blonde ponders, side-glance directed at you. After a breath, she shrugs, “Maybe you were brought all the way here just to be _fucked_ , witch.”

Freydis ends her sentence in a giggle, her voice quiet and eyes shining. The young girl behind the past suffering and fear.

The old woman smiles, and points towards you with her head, “She speaks like one of our own, she better fuck like one too.”

Her jest is well-meaning even if insulting, and used already to Sieghild’s equally brash humor, you only roll your eyes with a laugh.

The three of you continue exchanging secrets of this land and its people till the moon is high up the sky. It helps with the feeling of shame, the feeling of having betrayed your purpose; it helps, but it doesn’t quieten the voices that demand to know why you get the right to spend the night next to a warm fire laughing and exchanging stories while your people’s corpses are still fresh, while the survivors await the embrace of the incoming winter to let go of their strength.

When the whispers quieten, when the city sleeps, when you are left alone with your thoughts; you realize what a mistake you have made.

You were taught to fight, you were taught to resist. The Gods made you smart and ambitious, and it was for a reason. It may be Fate you are to cross paths with the Varangian, but it is not written that you are to be bound to him, you refuse to believe so.

You have fought with claws and teeth before, you have lied and kissed and promised to avoid bindings. There is no reason why you shouldn’t now, no reason why foolish thoughts and feelings should stop you from doing what you have before.

Fight. To return to your people. To remain free. To overcome.

And so, letting go of the guilt of not trying enough but with a new sort of guilt and shame settling upon you, you depart the apothecary towards the main hall in the dead of night.

You are not stupid, you know the Viking wants you, at least slightly, at least begrudgingly. And he knows he cannot get any political advantage from making you his wife, he may even lose power by making you queen. There aren’t many things he can force out of you, so that leaves your body.

So, if it is your body he wants, you will let him have it, in whatever way he sees fit.

When it is done, when the foreignness is no longer mysterious, when you make the allure of whatever it is dissipate; then it will be easier to make him see that this was not ordained by the Gods, not his and definitely not yours.

You thank the warrior that leads you to the quarters with a nod and a silent smile, wondering in the back of your mind when or how these men got directions that you are to be allowed in the King’s chambers when he hasn’t called for you.

It surprises you that he hasn’t yet gone to sleep, makes you wonder what he has entertained himself with. A foolish thought of it being a someone that entertains the King at night makes you clench your jaw.

Still, you stand in wait, letting curious eyes wander over the spacious room. When the uneven steps reach your ears, followed by the fainter footsteps of two slaves, you straighten your back and face the doorway.

King Ivar’s eyes widen when he finds you in the room, quickly moving over your form in the red dress before he dismisses the slaves with a gesture of his hand.

You keep your eyes on his, but there has never been a time you have shown less in your gaze. He sits down, discarding the crutch at his side, and you walk closer even though your legs shake and your hands tremble.

Playing games kept you from your freedom, but…playing games may keep you from chains this time.

You’d prefer iron shackles on your wrists and ankles for a thousand years if it meant not having to be an unwilling wife before Gods that, although you don’t worship, you respect and believe in.

Your steps falter, and your heart remembers the consequences of the last time you lied in exchange for freedom. The words in your head are promises that this is no different from Narses, even if Narses was kind, and sane, and you cared for him.

_What men like Ivar the Boneless need you to be, you become._

You reach up, keeping your eyes on his, and let the dress drop down to the floor, leaving you bare to hungry blue eyes that immediately trace over your body.

His lips part before he speaks, and he seems to stammer for a moment before he asks, “W-What are you…?”

“I know you want me,” You offer, a little entranced by the desire, the fear, the struggle for control that you see written all over his face; taking a small step forward before you realize it. You shake yourself off your stupor, standing straighter. With what feels like your last breath before a defeated descent to Hades, you whisper, “You don’t have to make me your wife, whatever you want you can get without marrying me.”

Any wonder, any trace of desire and boyish vulnerability you could see written all over his face, shining in his hungry eyes; it all disappears with your words.

His expression hardens and his nose furrows on a snarl, his voice gravelly and almost disgusted as he motions dismissively towards you.

“Get dressed.”

You startle, and resist the urge to cover yourself with your hands.

“W-What?”

“I said get dressed. I do not want your pity.”

Your brow furrows along with your nose, and although with trembling hands you grab onto the linen and cover yourself, you still grit out,

“It’s not pity. It’s…desperation.”

“Desperation?”

“I cannot be bound to you, I cannot be made into your wife.” You try, and the pleading tone of your voice makes disgust at yourself churn at your insides.

“Are you ashamed you will have to be the wife to a cripple, hm? Disgusted?” He taunts, the flip of a coin and back into the cruel rage you have faced before, although with a different, more raw edge to it as he presses, “Is that it?”

And as before, the glimpse of something real, the victory of drawing something human out of the monster that bears the crown makes your own back straighten, your own voice turn into steel.

“That you think your legs are the reason I would have for not wanting to be your wife, King Ivar, tells me all I need to know about you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He spits out, and even as his raised voice puts you on edge, you still run your hands through your hair as you start placing, “Do not walk away from me!”

You turn back to him with wide eyes and quickened breath. But it is not fear, it’s rage. For a moment when your eyes meet you want to dare him to make you fear him, but the arrogance beats the desire to prove your foolish heart wrong, and you spit out,

“You have had me chained and humiliated; you have forced me to become something I do not want to!” Your nose furrows and your eyebrows crease, but your voice lowers and you settle the fury in your voice as you answer his question, “And you thinking me being against all this charade has anything to do with your legs makes me realize in your mind all of this,” You gesture around you, “is somehow alright.”

His nose furrows, his lip curls in a snarl before he argues, “It is Fate!”

“Why!? Because you say so!?” You shake your head, “Impressive a man as you may be, you are not yet a _Manteion_.”

“A what!?”

Of course he doesn’t know, how could he, how could anyone in this cold and foreign place know at all what you mean when you speak in your tongue, to your Gods, about your world.

Letting all the breath leave your lungs, you let yourself fall to the ground, hiding your face in your hands.

“Our worlds are so different, Ivar, how can you think that-…” You sigh, “I do not belong here, I do not belong here with you.”

“Well, you are here.”

_You are here with me._

And his arrogance as he says it, his pride, his power, you have known those for a long time, you have seen them in familiar faces and strangers. You have been forced to accept them, accept their rule over you simply because of the way the world is, for too long now.

_Your calves grow warmer before the fire, but even if you put your legs above the burning wood it wouldn’t feel as stinging and as burning as the red mark now on your cheek._

_The reminder, the thought of it alone, makes your weak hands tremble and your eyes fill with useless tears._

_“Tis your pride hurting more than your face, little one.” Sieghild starts, but even if there is the start of a jest in her words, there’s gravity in her voice._

_“He had no right to-…”_

_“He did,” She interrupts. And it is the truth, and it makes you clench your jaw and look away from her green eyes. “You wounded his pride, most men don’t take kindly to that offense.”_

_You stay silent, because you know. And you know you spoke out of place, you know you acted like a child, wanting things out of your reach. You know you should have lowered your eyes, shut your mouth._

_Still…_

_“Is what he said true?” You ask meekly, feeling the burn of shame at the base of your throat. “That they can…take me?”_

_“As a prisoner?” The Viking leans back on her bed, a crooked smile on her inked face, “They can try.”_

_“As a concubine.”_

_Your mother focuses on you, “You are my daughter, little one. They can force no binds on you.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_Sieghild smiles, with that same smile that speaks of a world of liberties women where you come from could never even fathom._

“You need me to say yes!” You yell before you can stop the words from leaving your lips, and you can only watch with widened eyes and a hand over your treacherous mouth as Ivar the Boneless turns to look at you again, the arrogant ire shining in his clear eyes. You scramble to stand, your eyes wide and hand still somewhat covering your mouth.

“What?”

He heard you. This would be your opportunity to take back your words, to take back your resistance, to accept surrender. You waged war against the very Empire the last time you were asked to surrender, though.

“You need my consent for us to be married, Viking,” You state instead, the words fast and your breath also. You stand up, hands tightened to fists. A flinch of anger passes over the King’s expression as he presses his lips together, irritated that you are apparently so bent on being _free_. Yes, truly scandalous of you. You swallow your own irritation down and insist, “I am a free woman, you can’t force me.

He considers you quietly for a moment, and before he has a chance to argue, you remind him,

“You won’t break a promise, so you won’t make me a slave,” Even if your voice shakes, you continue, “I-I know of your ways, of…of your Gods. This wasn’t arranged, and since I’m free you need me to say yes.”

He hears the words you don’t say: _And I will say no_.

After a moment of stubbornly considering you, the King merely shakes his head.

“You have already been given to me.”

“That Christian has no claims to me, and you know this.” You tell him, speak ing of Stithulf and his useless chains.

“I’m not talking about him,” Ivar says, cold smile on his face as he leans on his crutch and serves a goblet of mead. He lifts the cup to you in offering, but you remain in your spot. With a sigh of both disappointment and irritation, the King gulps down the drink and clarifies, “I’m talking about your mother.”

“My mother is dead.” You say without hesitation, although a pit of fear starts opening at your stomach.

But he shakes his head, lifting a finger from his hold on the cup and pointing to you as he corrects, “I don’t mean the Greek one.”

“You are lying,” Is all you say as you look into Ivar’s eyes, your voice trembling as much as the rest of your body. Your nails dig into your palms but you cannot help it, you cannot tell your body to uncoil, not until you hear the truth. “You are lying to play with my head.”

“How would I know Sieghild Vorsdottir, King Rorik’s wife, famed shieldmaiden from the Danes, is the woman that raised you?” He offers, and with each word the ground under your feet dissolves more and more, “She came to me, told me she gave me your hand. I have witnesses.”

No, no, she would never. All those years, telling you to stand tall, teaching you not to bite your tongue, it cannot all have been for her to ditch you and sell you off to the first king you encounter.

You want to think this rationally, you want to remain calm and look for the truth but…

A part of you that will always be her child, that will always love her like the mother you lost too soon; that part of you leaves you with your hands shaking and your throat clogged with only one word.

_Móðir…_

“She would never do that, she…” You close your eyes with a deep breath, “If she did such a thing, she told you why.”

“She said she had to, that it was fate.”

“You are lying.” The words are choked, the last grasp of a dying hope.

“Would you stop with that? I am not lying.”

 _Sieghild’s sad and loving eyes on you, her hand holding your face,_ “ _I have asked Freya for help ever since we arrived in Scandinavia. She has answered.”_

_Frantic questions leave your lips, but in her smile there’s the same resignation you saw when she said goodbye as you readied to face the Byzantines for what was supposed to be your death, “The Seer’s words-…it does not matter anymore.”_

“She said-…she knew all this time,” You choke out, wide eyes searching the nothing before you for answers, “Her visions, the Seer’s words, she…she knew.”

There’s a strange moment of hesitation, a breath of uncertainty where you think the Viking is trying to find a way to comfort you.

“Prophecies, visions…it is usually too late to change the result when we realize what the Seer’s words mean.” Is what he finally settles on saying.

Foolish, stubborn tears sting at your eyes, and it is with a shaky hand you reach to hold on tight to your mother’s necklace, despair cursing through your veins.

_The Völva offers you a small smile, equally mocking and apologetic, “Run if you want to, fight, kick, scream. Fate will drag you home by the wrists, child. You know how this tale goes. The chariot’s pace will tear the world asunder as darkness goes looking for you.”_

Your eyes trace over the skyline, almost frantically searching for an answer you know you will not find there.

“This…this place,” You look over the sea, feeling your chest tighten. “This was Ragnar’s pride. Sieghild’s tales…this is Queen Aslaug’s home. The empty throne.”

“You are not making any sense.”

“I was supposed to come here, before I even returned to Greece. I was-…Sieghild, she knew we were to return to her homeland, to that place ruled by a witch from the Danes.

You turn to him with wide eyes, a manic laugh bubbling up in your chest at the realization. For once, the King stays silent, watching you raptly.

“She knew it was fate. We ran from it, _I_ ran from it.

It is with wide eyes and parted lips you look at the man before you, now in a new light, now with a new weight over your shoulders and heart.

“I have no choice,” The revelation is stealing the air from your lips, but with cracked tones you whisper, “I am…I am to be here. It is fate I become your wife.”

 _Fate_. You never thought a word that once brought you so much comfort would make you feel so devastated.

“I will not be a bad husband for you,” He promises after a moment of silence, voice as uncertain as his eyes searching yours, “You will want for nothing, you will be respected by our people, I…I will take care of you.

You nod, but stay silent as the weight of it all settles upon you. You don’t know what is expected out of you now, what fight can you conjure up, what you can try -and see fail, again- to try and escape these…these invisible shackles.

There’s a moment of quiet, and the man moves in his seat, settling back in place with a posture that in anything other than a monster would make you think he’s sheepish, awkward.

His voice is low, almost hesitant as he offers, “You can ask for anything you want.”

You look at him out of the corner of your eye, “I do not ask for things I do not deserve, my King.”

Maybe it is time you stop asking for freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay so Ivar’s words at the end are inspired on Hades’ speech to Persephone in the Homeric Hymns: “(…) feel kindly in your heart towards me: be not so exceedingly cast down; for I shall be no unfitting husband for you among the deathless gods, that am own brother to father Zeus. And while you are here, you shall rule all that lives and moves and shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore.“


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot of snake imagery in the story, and in this chapter in specific. They are symbols of Hades, hence why they appear a lot in relation to Ivar.

_A yell of your name in a voice you know so well, even if you never heard him sound so pained, so powerless, so…dead. Running past unfamiliar trees with branches that grab onto your clothes like greedy hands, you find the clearing where Narses lays on his knees, blood pooling under him, staining his armor, his face, his sword._

_He drops his shield, and a bloodied hand reaches for you. Another whisper of your name, but you do not move._

_You stand still in that dark clearing, and look down at your bare feet to see snakes, dark and hissing, moving all around you, crawling over the grass and almost threatening you to do or don’t._

_There’s a simple, invisible,_ heavy _path carved by the dangerous animals, a silent promise that your journey to the fallen soldier will be one without stumbles, without poison, without threat._

 _But you still take a step back, not from them for they have never harmed you, but from_ him _. Another yell of your name, but you take another step back, and the serpents answer, closing the pathway._

 _Your eyes stay on that shield, stained and damaged and_ dropped _. Your mother’s words to your father echo in your head and your eyes cannot leave the abandoned shield, the abandoned fight._

_A glance at your feet and you watch the snakes quietly as they slither closer and closer, but leaving space around you, as if afraid to pierce an invisible ward._

_You hear your name again, but this time is different, foreign,_ real _. It’s a whisper of your name, with an accent you wish you didn’t know by heart, and through his voice alone he makes you lift your gaze again._

_Ivar stands behind Narses, eyes cold when they find yours and, on his face growing the same sinister smile you found across half a battlefield._

_He waits for your reaction for only a moment, before his knife runs across the throat of the fallen Greek, drawing blood and death in its wake._

_A sight as horrible as it is liberating, you still lower your eyes and flinch at the sound of Narses’ body hitting the cold ground. In your hands, you hold tight onto Ivar’s bloodied knife, and your eyes cloud with tears._

_“You have no interest in mercy.” He taunts, and the smile upon his lips is hungry but somehow comforting all the same. You shake your head, not sure if at what just happened, at his words, or at the conflict within you._

_You stumble back, and the hissing snakes curl at your feet, your legs, embrace you with appalling familiarity, making you fall down on the grass._

_They slither over your legs, your arms, you can hear them hiss by your ear, but they don’t attack, they don’t harm you. They never did._

_Ivar crawls towards you with the movements that shouldn’t be as elegant as they are, and you feel the heat of his body as he lays with his chest pressed to yours, strong arms caging you and keeping him upright at the same time._

_His hand grabs onto both of your wrists like a burning shackle, and you cannot break free. You tell yourself knowing it’s fruitless is the reason you don’t attempt it._

_And he only smiles, almost feral and yet almost tender._

_“Half a kingdom for a promise,” He vows quietly even though his voice, accented and foreign and_ real _thrums in your chest like a lost song. His face moves closer to yours, and your lips part when your gaze travels to his, stained with the red of blood and something else, something sweeter. Ivar’s breath shudders over your parted lips, “It was no trick, each seed a choice.”_

You awaken with a start, the sheets and furs on a pile at your feet even if your toes are almost numb from the cold. You close your eyes again, trying to dispel those images, trying to chase off those tendrils of hope and fear and grief and hunger.

The Gods have spoken to you through dreams all your life, but you refuse to believe this is anything but a foolish nightmare. You refuse.

Before you can fully calm your breaths, your feet are on the cold wood and you are walking.

There’s a small hill, a free patch of frozen grass and hard earth that overlooks the city all the way to the coast, you can see it clearly in your mind. You let your instinct guide you there, even if Apollo hasn’t awakened yet and you know of the dangerous creatures lurking in the shadows during northern nights.

Your legs give out under you when you find the small patch of grass that called to you, and anguish courses over you for no apparent reason when you catch a glimpse of what once would have been a wildflower now a branch, dry and dead, having failed to endure Kattegat’s cold.

The prayer leaving your lips is but a whisper against the harsh winds, the Greek burning your tongue as nothing but a futile rebellion you have carried in your heart since Eleusis, and the uttering of your Goddess’ name still a thrill and a badge of pride as you start,

“Persephone, Daughter of the Earth, Bride of the Darkness, I…”

Your words die in your lips as you gaze at the cold and barren land surrounding you; not a flower, not a glimpse of spring to be seen. Nothing but blood and iron.

“I am lost, I am lost and alone in a land of death and cold and I…I have become nothing but a King’s prisoner. If this is the wills of the Fates, why was I to know Eleusis’ warmth?”

A familiar kind of pain, a mix of rage and nostalgia, washes over you, swaying you in the place where you kneel, as if an unseen wind forces your body to waver like a weak tree in a storm. As your eyes fall closed and a dull pain settles behind them, you could swear you smell the lilies and lavender of an old wreath, woven in secret.

Memories of being a child standing alone, surrounded by elders and mothers, their eyes on her even as you trembled and cried. The warmth of the blood slave with Hades’ mark spreading through your whole body as the blood was poured on your head.

Memories of your wreath of lilies and wildflowers held tightly in your hands. Memories of the raspy voice by your ear, the one you sometimes still hear.

_“You feel lost, my child.” The woman says, white eyes looking back at you as she cocks her head to the side. It takes you a few seconds too long to answer, it seems, for she stretches her hand, grabbing yours and bringing the wreath the elders made you closer to her blind gaze. Her skin is so cold it makes you shiver, but the smile that graces her full lips makes you remember your mother’s embrace, so you don’t move._

_Her nail is sharp when it pierces your wrist, the blood rapidly staining her fingers and pouring the drops over the wreath of flowers. You flinch at the sudden pain, but her raspy voice shushes you into silence._

_You have a feeling she looks directly at you when her white eyes meet yours._

_“You will not find your belonging amongst flowers.”_

_Her smile is a little hungry, a little cold, a little bloodstained. A thought so alike a memory tells you the red on her full lips is a mix of pomegranates and blood._

_She releases you, straightening up, and you feel a strange nostalgia wash over you, like you know you will miss her after this._

_“Beyond anguish and hopelessness, remember you shall always have my favor. Do not forget me, and I will not forget you, my child.”_

An anger that has poisoned you for so long trails down your cheeks as tears. You remember the fear, the pain and the grief as you watched the houses burn, as you ran from the one home you have known and the Christians and their God took it all.

“I was told I would have to wade through blood and darkness to make Attica mine,” You whisper, feeling the same pit of dread on your stomach as well as the furious beat of a heart that wants to say _then I shall_. “I have given you my blood, I have surrendered myself to darkness!”

Anger boils in your blood as you slam a closed fist on the cold earth.

“And yet the Christians win, and Attica burns, and my people die, and…” A deep breath, and your next words leave your lips like someone’s dying breath, “And your reward is another set of chains further away from home. What purpose do I follow being chained to that man?”

Silence is your answer.

A distant sound of raven wings as Apollo’s messenger flies overhead, the clanks of iron swords and axes meeting shields and each other in the distant training fields, the sea lapping relentlessly at the shore.

Silence, barren and foreign.

Your chest heaves in a sob, the blood in your veins both cold and boiling, filling you with wrath and forcing you to cave.

This can’t be how your story is supposed to go, this cannot be what the Gods set for you to become. You think of your father’s tales of war and triumph, of his absence; you think of your mother’s shining smiles and soft hands, of her defeat.

You think of Narses, and all you did wrong when it comes to him, and all the pain and guilt his death and the release from his chains left behind in your heart.

You think of all the families, warriors, elders, _people_ , that followed you from Attica into this cold hell.

What was the meaning behind all of it? Why? Why?

If Ivar is right, if what he says is true then…no. You cannot accept all you fought, all you lost, all you did, was a fruitless game that led you to this place, to his side.

Your throat burns and so do your eyes, but as you look over the threatening and unfamiliar land around you, feeling the numbness of cold settle on your legs and hearing the strong winds that carry death and iron instead of warmth and laughter as they pass over your ears; you cannot help but think about all those years at Sieghild’s side, with all her strange tales and all her…faith.

Tasting the words on your lips like defeat, you whisper, barely a dissent against the whistling winds,

“Freyja…if you are to hear me, if y-…I never honored you, and I never wanted or sought your favor, but…I beg now for answers, for…for anything, any sign that this is not my end, that this is not…death.

You remember your mother’s rough touch as she traces runes on the palm of your hand, whispering how Lady Freyja will watch over you even if you choose to worship other Gods. You remember the small planter of snowdrops that you found for sale near Kiev, and how it brought tears to your eyes to take in the familiar scent for the first time. You remember your own words to Ivar: _maybe both our Gods are one and the same, but take different names._

“L-Lady Freyja, give me a sign that the length of the chains put on me are not all the freedom I’ll know, give me a sign that there’s a reason past cruelty for my fate being tied to his, give me a sign-…” Your voice breaks, your breaths falter, “Freyja, please do not leave me alone here.”

Before another sob of loneliness and defeat can leave your lips, you hear the soft crunching of cold grass under a soft step.

Turning around with a gasp, you find familiar blue eyes and delicate features, blonde hair swept to the wind as Freydis approaches you.

“How did you find me here?”

“I wasn’t looking,” Is all she offers, before approaching you cautiously. You keep your gaze on her, realizing too late that the evidence of your tears and your rage is evident on your red eyes and wet cheeks. Her eyes narrow for a moment, a barely-there second of rage, before it is gone, and her voice is as dainty as ever if slightly quieter when she says, “But you aren’t alone.”

“I never am, the King made sure I am always watched.”

“That’s not what I meant, witch.”

There’s a forced stillness, an uncertain distance, when she kneels on the ground next to you, and the hesitation in her blue eyes tells you that for a woman so used to games, being true becomes a struggle.

You still offer her a helpless shrug of your shoulders as you return to face ahead.

“You all call me a witch, but do you truly believe I have sight?” You ask her, but she huffs a dainty and breathy laugh that still speaks of empathy and hesitation.

“I don’t know if I can answer that.”

“I had a dream. There were…snakes on the ground, and I couldn’t…I couldn’t run, they trapped my feet, they…” You stop yourself, closing your eyes, “Then I saw…”

“Ivar.”

You nod, but she doesn’t need the confirmation.

“There were rumors you went to his chambers while we slept. I have no idea what you tried to do, witch, but…it didn’t work, did it?” She starts, and when you say nothing, she sighs, “You are more than capable of fooling a man, especially one you have…ensnared already. What is it that you are after that he is not blind enough yet to give you?”

“Freedom,” You reply without hesitation. The blonde gives away nothing as she returns mild eyes to you. You return your eyes ahead, but steal a glance from the corner of your eye to her, and decide that if all is set, if fate is truly, cruelly, behind this, then there’s no harm in voicing it now. Even if you name this now, it is already past your control, it is already real. “I am to be his wife, Freydis.”

Voicing it should feel like a burden, should feel like the self-made bindings that you set on your own wrists and ankles, adding weight to the chains, every time you whispered promises in Narses’ ear, every time you answered his words of love with lies, every time you imagined a life as his meek wife and thought that you would kill him in his sleep before he had a chance at making you into what he wanted out of you. Admitting your defeat, admitting to the new title set upon you, it should feel just as heavy.

But it doesn’t.

The title of wife is terrifying, the idea of having to do the King’s bidding is suffocating you from the inside, but if anything, you are still…partly you, with these chains. You have learned not to shut your mouth, not to lower your eyes, to take the spaces that men tried confining you to and make them seats of power.

And no titles the Viking puts over your head, no wrath and certainly no ‘fate’ can change that, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. It is hard to hold onto certainties anymore.

You turn your eyes to Freydis, and watch as her breath leaves her, and you see her lower her face to look at her hands, hesitating.

“He’s a dangerous man to be the wife of,” She mutters, considering her words for a second before she faces you, “Will he make you Queen?”

You nod, “It seems to be so.”

Her eyebrows raise slightly, but she makes no comment, and in the crushing silence your dread and desperation leave your lips,

“Who would have thought this would be a fitting end to a Greek Anassa, to become a Varangian’s wife,” You whisper, not able to keep the bitter chuckle from your lips, “The Fates are laughing at this.”

Even though you are certain most of the words you just said -Anassa, Varangian, Fates- make no sense to her, Freydis still shrugs one shoulder and looks over the sea with you, murmuring with a certainty you never heard before, “This is not your end.”

You blink a few times, remaining quiet and considering her words, but eventually shrug and keeping your eyes on the horizon say,

“The start of it, then.”

“Why?”

“Without freedom, Freydis, what use have I for being alive?” You ask her, but she only smiles, as if she finds this funny.

“The purpose of life is not freedom, witch, but survival.”

“No!” You argue, frowning, “Being able to choose is what makes us human.”

“Why? We don’t choose our path, we don’t choose our fate.”

The words feel like a hard blow somewhere in our stomach, or your heart.

“Fate,” You taste the word in your tongue, “You believe Fate me brought me to Ivar’s side.”

She considers lying for a second, you see it in her gaze, but she eventually nods.

“If Freyja has deemed you to be the woman for him…”

You shake your head, not willing to hear that, “It is still my choice to…to resist him, it is still my choice how I feel about him, about what has brought me here. If none other, let me have this freedom.”

She acquiesces your words with a reluctant nod of her head, and after a few breaths of silence, she sighs,

“It is easy to forget how important freedom is to people like…like you.”

 _You were never a slave, were you?_ Echoes in your head, and your heart squeezes in pain for her, for the scars she does not bear on her skin but that shine past her eyes.

“But you are free now, you should…strive to keep that freedom.”

“Like you are?”

You ignore her bite, because to be quite true she is…right.

“I was taught that…the Fates, the Norns, whatever it is; they dictate what is to happen to us, what we are to go through,” You explain looking down at your hands wringing together, “But it is _our choice_ to see how what happened, what we went through, changes us.”

“And have you? Decided to change, that is.”

“Ivar took that choice from me, Freydis!” You say, your voice rising, but she does not react, you think for a moment that it seems she was expecting the outburst. You stand up, pacing with bare feet on cold, cold grass, feeling like a caged animal even if Kattegat’s walls are far away, “I have had more titles, more names, than I can count. Yet one of my first memories is telling the woman that raised me that I did not want to be a shieldmaiden like her, that I wanted to be a healer,” You turn to face the blonde again, and find her blue eyes slightly narrowed as she considers you. With a hand on your chest, you explain, “I _chose_ that, I chose what I was to become. I have chosen every title that has been bestowed upon me, even if I did not want it.”

She stands up slowly, her movements careful, and approaches you where you stand. Her gaze is certain, carrying a calm born out of not being bothered by the absence of choice, and it unsettles you.

“And why can’t you choose these ones he offers to you, even if you don’t want them?”

“Because he is not offering, he is forcing me.”

“If he had asked…” Freydis starts, but leaves the words dangling in the air between you, like she is giving you the choice to admit this or not.

All you can offer her is a ragged intake of breath, and a shrug, “I don’t know.”

Her hand finds yours, and the simple gesture of comfort is enough to make you feel not so unbearably alone. Based on the sad smile she offers you, you think you are not the only one to feel alone in a realm of cold and shadow.

You stay side by side for so long your entire body is already numb to the cold of this land, and with voice raspy from lack of use Freydis calls your name.

Not ‘witch’, not a title you never wanted, not a title that is to be set upon you soon. Your name.

You turn to her and find her blue eyes already on you, so incredibly sad that in them, like in all profound agonies, you find a vein of fury that could make this world tremble.

“I know of chains and of freedom,” She starts, raising her chin high, “I was freed from being a thrall and it felt like dying, and I learned freedom is what we make it to be.

You remember the Völva’s words, _we choose what we call chains and what we call freedom_. You grit your teeth and force yourself to stay silent.

You don’t want to tell her hearing this feels like someone forcing you to accept surrender, you don’t want to tell her all your life you have prided yourself in fighting for your freedom, you don’t want to tell her accepting defeat and staying in this place may taste sweet but also of shame.

“There’s rumors about something you did when the King put you in chains, about you talking in your tongue and marking a Christian,” Freydis continues, and your eyes widen, “Maybe Freyja is putting you at Ivar’s side so you can…so your enemies are defeated.”

“What happens when they are?”

She smiles to herself, before pursing her lips and looking down at her hands, “There’s many ways out of a kingdom. A former slave, better than almost anyone, knows of them.”

Your breath shudders out past parted lips, and you turn to her with what you know is desperation written in your expression. She remains serene, calm and certain. Fearless.

“Y-You’d…Freydis…”

“I would,” She replies to the questions that do not leave your lips, “When the King lowers his guard and loosens what you call chains, I would.”

You close your eyes and try getting your breathing back under control, trying to breathe past the hope that chokes you, trying to think past the stupid desperation to prove Fate wrong.

You straighten your spine and lower your voice, meeting her eyes with no hesitation.

“I’ll choose to believe you,” You promise, stopping yourself when your voice trembles, “But if you betray me, on your Gods and mine I swear you’ll regret it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where the Reader recalls being face to face with Persephone, you may take it as a dream or hallucination, or as a one-in-a-lifetime thing like Odin appearing before the sons of Ragnar and talking to Ivar; your choice ;)
> 
> Also: “Sometimes at night, I imagine that her fingers are intertwined with mine. Just the thought of her presence reminds me that I am not as alone as I feel” (e.r.) Because yes, at this rate I’m shipping Freydis/Reader more than Ivar/Reader. But I promise, when it comes to main ship/endgame ship, it’s still Ivar. I have more than one ending planned for this story (choose your own kinda deal), maybe Freydis/Reader is one of those endings but who knows? ;)


	15. Chapter 15

You catch up to Ivar near the main hall, waiting for him outside the room Prince Hvitserk told you he’d be in with your hands crossed behind your back.

He eyes you with suspicion when he sees you, but still approaches and starts walking at your side.

“You are not here to apologize.”

 _Why would I?_ You want to retort, but instead you just shake your head.

“No, but…” You shrug, “I have trusted my mother more than anyone on this world, I will trust she knew what she was doing. I’ll choose to believe maybe the Goddess she worships has a reason for this to happen.”

“So you have accepted it, you will not fight anymore.” He states, and you raise your eyebrows in response.

“If you expect to see me defeated, King Ivar, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

“I would never want that.” He replies easily, squaring his shoulders as he returns his gaze ahead, and something tells you he is telling the truth. You do not know what to do with that knowledge.

“What do you want, then?” You ask boldly, surprising even yourself, “You get nothing out of marrying me. You are a smart man; you know you might lose power by making me your wife.”

“Why?”

He knows the answer, he knows. You have an inkling he is testing to see if you do, with how much certainty you can speak of power and its intricacies.

“You could marry a woman with…land here, a princess or an heir.” You explain, but Ivar just shrugs.

“I could still do that, I could find a second wife.”

You stop dead in your tracks at the realization that he _could_ , and sensing you stop walking Ivar turns to you, eyebrows raised and the beginning of a mocking smile on his lips.

But to a child born in the cult of Persephone, promises of unloyalty are not something to be simply accepted. You were told that the Goddess you dedicated your life to was loyal and true to her husband even if she was a victim of him; you saw many new couples at your temple there to bless them with faithfulness and prosperity. You refuse the humiliation of sharing the one you are bound with before the Gods themselves.

So you walk the few steps that separate you, back straight and posture that of a woman with a confidence you do not truly have. What you do have, though, is arrogance, is pride, is relentlessness.

No man has made your nature change before, and certainly no King can, no matter how cruel.

You tilt your head and look into his eyes, unwavering.

“A _Hiereia_ of Despoina does not take lightly to marriage. Your people may do things differently, but my people don’t, _my Gods_ don’t,” Your heart remembers your homeland, your mother’s smiles as your father passed by and left a gentle caress on her face, her empty eyes as she waited for weeks for the ships that never returned, the love that years after their deaths all the way in Laconia -even with the bitterness of having lost their heir to Sparta to an Athenian- your family spoke of how blessed were they to have each other as husband and wife. The bitterness and grief make your resolve falter for a moment, but you still continue, “Before your Gods and my own I will promise loyalty to you, I will promise faithfulness. I ask-…no, I _demand_ the same in return.”

“You demand.” He repeats, clearly a mock, a bait that you choose not to bite this time.

You nod.

“Which brings me back to my question, Viking,” You lift your eyebrows, “What is it _you_ want?”

“I want many things,” He replies vaguely, shrugging before turning eyes like Greek fire to your own. “But I _demand_ nothing more than that.”

With a small sound of exertion, he turns his back to you and continues walking towards the main room of the longhouse, leaving you dumbfounded and partly impressed, leaving you with the realization you played exactly how he wanted you to.

It feels like those times you would run to cross the dangerous and wild stream near the temple, your hair wild and feet bare. It feels like the deafening noise of the current in your ears, the fear and excitement running through your veins, the possibility of failure or success.

You smile.

____

“Why am I not surprised?” Ivar starts from behind you, and you turn to him without removing your hands from your task.

“Because I am predictable.”

“Stubborn,” He corrects as he steps into your room, eyes on the small sapling you planted on a ceramic vase. “You know it will not grow here, it needs warmer and softer ground than ours.”

You nod before leaving the plant by the window, hoping it will absorb as much sunlight as it needs, as it can.

“I have to try.”

He remains silent for a few moments, before the rustling of him moving where he stands brings your gaze to him. The King extends a hand and motions with his head,

“Come with me.”

You frown, but still stand up and walk slowly to his side. Your eyes travel to his still extended hand, but you cannot bring yourself to take it, choosing instead to ask,

“What is it?”

He doesn’t reply, and his jaw clenches before his hand drops back to his side. Still, he insists with a gesture of his head that you follow him.

The paths through his home are familiar to you by now, and you follow blindly as you try scrubbing off the dirt from your hands. Selene’s chariot is high up in the skies, the people have already retired to their homes, the thralls are making quick work of the mess left behind after tonight’s dinner.

After crossing a doorway, you find yourself in a spacious room with only a hearth in the middle of it, and some chairs and lunges. Chairs where, expectantly, the sons of Ragnar sit.

Prince Hvitserk greets you with your name, and you smile faintly, and he smiles back as he states, “I’m surprised to see you.”

“Prince Hvi-…”

“What _is_ she doing here, Ivar?” The older Prince interrupts, eyes burning on you with a distrust and a vitriol quite alike his brother’s but more contained.

And you know it is not a mere question. Years alongside mercenaries, alongside warriors and leaders, they let you know this is a public defiance, a test of both mettles.

The way Prince Ubbe speaks, with the same tone in his voice, the same carry of his loud words, that has made you fear before; it makes you stay frozen in the doorway for a moment too long.

The King only shrugs, walking ahead and taking a seat, absently using his crutch to move a chair at his side back so you can sit.

Before replying to his brother, he turns to you and motions for you to sit.

“She is my…advisor.”

His gesture may speak of nonchalance, but his words have that slight carry you have noticed before, the pride of authority and the will and strength to carry said authority.

But his brother still takes his words with a dismissive smile, shaking his head, “You take a Greek witch as an advisor?”

You bite your tongue to keep yourself from saying that better men have tried better insults, and that nor your blood or your gifts, and the titles they warrant, call for you to feel offended at their mention, even if he wills it so.

Instead, you grit your teeth and swallow your pride to keep silent as you take your gaze to the King, studying his façade as he lifts purposely falsely innocent eyebrows at his brother, his mouth curved in a small mocking smile.

“I never did things the normal way, did I?” Some silent conversation seems to flow between the two sons of Ragnar, and you catch Hvitserk’s eyes for a moment.

He smiles, an apology, a gesture that says you ought to get used to this; and you offer a small smile in return, one of the first honest ones you’ve given the Prince.

“Why?” Ubbe insists.

_Stithulf’s disgust as you are caught in the tent where they discuss war, his demand for answers when he turns to the man that would be your husband, “What is the witch doing here?”_

_“She is to be my wife, I trust her advice.” Narses replies simply. It irks of too little when the Gods know you are the reason he won against the Saracens, but you are still grateful, because you have to be._

“She is a smart woman,” Ivar replies, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, “I trust her judgement when it comes to Stithulf more than yours, brother.”

Before he can taunt his brother into throwing an axe to your face, you decide to intervene, voice low as you lean closer.

“Ivar…”

“Dublin is being hounded by Stithulf’s forces,” He explains without a second thought. He leans on the table before him, not turning to you as he speaks so you are left studying the way the light draws his profile, “We are leaving in two days.”

“We?”

“Hvitty will stay here with you.” He reassures, or attempts to at least, yet all he manages is to make you frown.

“Why are _you_ going?” You hiss, and as he turns to you the King furrows his nose in annoyance, the beginning of a snarl starting to curl at his lip.

“Afraid the cripple can’t defend himself?”

“Stithulf couldn’t care less about Dublin. He wants your head, Viking.” You insist instead of replying to the obvious taunt. He opens his mouth to retort, clearly surprised by your revelation, but is interrupted before he can speak.

“Ivar, witch,” Ubbe calls out, startling you out of your conversation. He raises his eyebrows, “Share with the rest of us, will you?”

After a breath, you explain, “Stithulf is after the men that killed his King. He doesn’t care about cities, or land, or…fame. He wants the sons of Ragnar.”

“So you think he is trying to draw us out.”

 _I know so_. You want to say, but you bite your tongue, you swallow your pride, your arrogance, even if you know that if you were a man they’d call it confidence.

“He reached my homeland searching for an edge over your armies, and found it in Arab and Greek forces. I doubt he will waste them destroying buildings, my Prince.” You answer with a nod, not missing the way Ivar’s eyes remain glued to you as you speak. It thrills you when it should make you want to crawl out of your own skin.

They continue talking to each other, discussing what they ought to do, how they are to approach the city. You doubt the reinforcements from Ivar’s army will hold the same element of surprise as they did the last time Stithulf readied his army near Dublin; and it seems they have the same idea for they don’t plan on being subtle about Kattegat’s navy supporting Dublin.

And as the moon travels through the skies, when you should be exhausted and ready to sleep; you are thrilled and beyond interested. The song of war, Athena’s boardgame, it all wraps around you like a familiar cloak.

So you soak in their talks about formations, about ways they can approach, you rejoice in listening to the way Dublin can be defended. With your elbows on the table and your head in your hands, you listen and observe, for once without fear of being told you are out of place.

____

And before you know it two days have passed. On the last night, when the ships are readied for the journey, the warriors celebrating their last night in Kattegat; you sit with Freydis and other women from the apothecary, exchanging laughs and stories as the feast goes on around you.

More than once during the night, your foolish heart makes your eyes roam the hall in search of the King, and you find yourself smiling like a fool at the sight of him drinking and laughing with his brothers, with his men.

The times where you look for him only to find him already with his eyes on you, those times make your foolish heart beat faster, but you will deny it if anyone asks.

You swirl the mead in your cup as you lay back on your chair, taking in the ongoing celebration and trying to remember the last time you felt this comfortable and safe and…

“You feel at home, witch.” Freydis states quietly, almost by your ear, interrupting your thoughts.

Wide eyes find hers, but she only smiles calmly, with that hint that she knows a secret you don’t.

Before you can ask her to kindly be a bit less cryptic for once, she looks at someone behind you, and a hand gently calling for your attention when it rests on your shoulder stops you.

You turn to meet the warm eyes of Prince Hvitserk, who offers you a silent greeting and a small smile.

“My brother calls for you.” He whispers, eyes on yours and the promise of what is to come written on them. You wonder how much of how you have come to become his brother’s wife is known to him.

Ivar stands before his throne and your heart lurches when you see another seat arranged besides it. You find his eyes, and he extends a hand.

“I will not sit there.” You hiss at him. He grits his teeth, the annoyance at how you are unwilling to follow even the simplest of commands clear in his expression.

“You will be at my side, _get up here_.”

Your eyes travel to his still extended hand, palm facing upwards, fingers open and vulnerable expecting the touch of your own. Rationally, you know there’s a feast going around you, you know there’s yells and songs and laughs, but you cannot hear anything but the ringing in your own ears.

You cannot see anything but his hand expecting the touch of your own, and his eyes searching yours.

And though you know it is the tug of the invisible binds set upon you what makes you take the steps necessary and hold his hand, the chains don’t feel as heavy as you thought they would.

Calloused but warm fingers close around your hand, and Ivar stands taller.

He calls for the attention of his people, and when the hall quietens and you feel all their eyes on the pair of you, it is you that grips tighter onto his hand on yours.

“My people,” He starts, proud and confident and infuriatingly performative, “Most of you already know of this fine woman I have at my side since our return from Dublin, Greek by birth but a daughter of one Sieghild Vorsdottir,” You hear the mumbled replies, the hushed whispers at the mention of your mother, and you narrow your eyes. Ivar continues, “You will all soon know her as your Queen, for when we return from Dublin again, she will be my wife, and Queen of Kattegat.”

You hold your head high as the Varangians lift their cups and horns and hands and voices in celebration and congratulations. Ivar thanks them with a smile and a gesture of his hand, and aside from a few men that approach to give their congratulations face to face, soon enough the aura of calm -or what calm has come to mean in these strange lands- returns to the room.

You eye the chair they set for you at the side of Ivar’s throne cautiously, but you will not lie to yourself and say it feels constricting to sit up there.

You make a point of letting go of the King’s hand as soon as you sit, though, and based on the way his jaw clenches and his head moves to the side in clear anger, you can tell he’s obviously noticed.

The feast lives on, and a few times -repeatedly, actually, which you will blame on the mead and ale- toasts arise to wish for the Gods’ favor on the incoming battles across the sea, to congratulate the King and his foreign bride, to celebrate the death that is to come and the death that might escape them.

It is all incredibly strange to you, painfully foreign. You have no choice but to remain at your seat, facing the loud and boastful warriors, listening to foreign tongues, trying to understand strange customs.

It makes you think of what Sieghild would make out of this. She always accused you of being too arrogant, too proud, too ambitious for a Greek woman. Boasted about it being her influence what taught you to stand straight and never bite your tongue.

What would she make out of her daughter being fated to become wife of one Ivar the Boneless?

“My mother,” You start, and almost startled the King turns to you. “You brought up her name twice now, as if she is…”

“Famous?” He supplies, beginning of a smirk in place, “She is.”

“Sieghild?”

“Women with hair and eyes like hers are not easily ignored. Doesn’t help she is taller and stronger than many men,” He shrugs, looking ahead, “King Rorik had to fight a bear to get her hand, or so the Danes say.

You have heard that name before, only once in your mother’s lips. It doesn’t cease to make disgust and hate churn at your stomach.

At your silence, Ivar insists,

“You know of him, don’t you? The only madman before my brother Bjorn to take sail to your _Mediterranean_.”

“He didn’t reach the Mediterranean,” You offer quietly, “His ships docked in a land colder than this one, many died because of cold or hunger. And though he and the warriors that were left founded Aldeigja, it is still a long way from the Mediterranean.”

“Did you ever meet him?” He asks, and your eyebrows raise in surprise. The King only shrugs, “You mentioned travelling a lot.”

You shake your head, “Sieghild…she was betrayed by him. She would never let him close to me.”

“But she told you of him.”

“To warn me of what men in power are capable of.”

“A woman made _Anassa,_ ” He retorts, the word still foreign on his lips but you find it oddly endearing that he tries speaking your tongue, using your titles, “wouldn’t have much to fear from men in power, now would she?”

You only raise your eyebrows in response, “You think I had any real power back in Greece?” Before he can answer, you shake your head with a chuckle, “Ivar, my own people didn’t take me as a leader until I died for them. Even that wasn’t enough, _Anassa_ is only a title, it wouldn’t change their hearts. I am a woman that refuses to fight like a man to achieve my goals, I had no place being queen in their eyes.

He stays silent, one of his hands by his mouth and his eyes intent on yours, and you let your lip curl in anger as you lay your back once again on the backrest of your seat, looking ahead.

“Because of _me_ and what I learned they managed to fend off the Saracen raiders, because of _me_ and my blood Laconia came to their support with the finest warriors in the Mediterranean, because of _me_ they had time to escape Eleusis when the Christians came,” You grit your teeth, and if it is bitterness and anger and hunger all that’s left within you once the veil of nostalgia is gone, then so be it. “And yet I had to prove myself more than any man, more than-…

 _More than Narses_.

You stop yourself, stealing a glance at the Viking that still keeps unwavering interest in the words that leave your lips. You shake your head, and reach for the cup a thrall refilled a few moments ago.

“It doesn’t matter. Most of the free Attics are dead somewhere near Aneridge, the rest will perish when winter comes. It doesn’t matter.”

The King touches his own cup with yours, and you eye him carefully, wary of what the outburst might mean for you, but Ivar only smirks.

“If you say so.” He mocks, drinking from his own cup but with his expression still dripping mirth and skepticism.

You roll your eyes, and settling better in the undeserved seat, you let conversation between the two of you go somewhere else.

And so it does, because frustratingly enough the Viking will never cease to be fascinating to you, and no matter what the two of you talk about it always manages to fill you with curiosity and warmth.

The ruckus of the feast eventually dies down, although not that far from the time the sun will rise over the sea, and you shake off your drowsiness as you watch people take their leave from the main hall.

Ivar stands up from his throne and gestures the mock of a bow your way, mumbling his goodnight. You watch him leave, reminded of the ships that are to depart over the horizon soon.

So, stealing a glance at the few remaining people and guards around you, you stand up and follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also yes Rorik (Rurik) as in Igor’s father, as in the King that sailed East and started the Rus dynasty is in my canon a Danish King and Sieghild’s former husband, whom she followed in that adventure to wherever-the-fuck. Then they parted ways, and she found herself in the Mediterranean.


	16. Chapter 16

The door to his rooms makes a loud sound behind you, and though he stays silent you can feel his blue eyes on you as you pace in the room, trying to find some _fucking words_.

Finally, you find a seat on one of the lounges by one of the windows, the furthest one you can find to the bed you have avoided looking at since learning you are to be his wife.

“You’ll leave me alone here.” You mutter before you can keep the words from leaving your lips. You notice Ivar stop and turn to you, but you keep your gaze on the floor a few feet from you, gritting your teeth.

“What?”

“Your people, they hate me or…or fear me. I don’t want to be surrounded by people I cannot trust.”

The implication that you trust him is heavy on your tongue and on your heart, but he does not dwell on it, instead offering,

“Then find thralls or…or shieldmaidens you can count on.”

“Why don’t you pick them?”

“You insist on believing otherwise, but you are not my prisoner. I will not force strangers to be at your side.”

You find his eyes wondering if he truly hears himself speak, but choose not to confront him about how he has very much so insisted on forcing strangers to be at your side. Him as a husband, mainly.

Instead, you insist, “But now you’ll leave me alone here.”

“You’d rather come with me?”

You offer honestly, because what is there to lose with truths, “I’d rather be home, where it’s warm and something other than bloodthirst grows.”

“Miss it all you want, you won’t return there.”

You stand up, approaching one of the windows. Even if your back is turned to the King, you still feel his eyes on you.

“You won’t be the first man to try to chain me.”

“I am not like other men.” He replies with an unsettling calm about him, the promise of not only trying but succeeding in chaining you if he wishes it so.

Turning around, you insist, “My very blood makes me belong to them. Athens, and Sparta, _Greece;_ it’ll summon me to return sooner or later.”

“Fate summoned you here,” He reminds you with cruel arrogance as he walks closer to you, “You belong here with me.”

But you shake your head, stubborn, “I am their Daughter!”

“You’ll be my wife!” His shouted command makes the blood in your veins grow cold, and you grit your teeth but stay silent, your eyes on his with prideful anger. “And I do not want to hear anymore about you returning there,” You start to smile, a mocking smile of the promise that you will not desist, but Ivar grabs at the back of your neck, forcing your eyes to face his and your arrogance to face his wrath, “You will not leave me.”

You grit your teeth and feel the fury bubbling under your skin. He towers over you, with but a move of his hand he could leave you with a knife deep in your heart, but you do not feel fear.

Putting your wrists together, you offer them to the King.

“Put the shackles on, then. _Force me_ , Ivar the Boneless.”

With a snarl of his own, he takes his hand off the back of your neck and grabs your wrists, both of them fitting tightly in one of his rough hands. He brings you closer to him, fast breaths caressing your face as he regards you with a combination of fury and desperation.

“I want you to _want_ me.”

 _I do want you_. Your foolish heart whispers, but you only regard the King with hard, even if tear-filled, eyes.

“I want my home and my people, Ivar.”

“This could be your home; these could be your people!”

“I owe Attica and the G-…”

He rolls his eyes and a gesture of his head emphasizes the tiredness he feels at this repeated argument, “Would you let go of that fucking place already?”

“Did you let go of Kattegat? Have you let go of Queen Aslaug?” You retort without hesitation, “Why are you asking me to forgo my people, _my vow_?”

He presses his lips together, his nose furrows in a snarl, but he doesn’t lash out. He is clearly trying to control his anger, and the surprise it ignites in you makes your own fury uncoil from your chest.

After a few angry breaths, he points a finger at you, and replies, “Because it’s not the only vow you made. And you don’t want to return, not really.”

You blink, taken aback, and if pride hadn’t stopped you, you would have taken a step back, you would have retreated.

Shaking your head, you retort, “This place, this…this kingdom. All that blossoms here is death and war, this could never be my home.”

Ivar merely scoffs in response, looking between your eyes and the rest of your body in the red dress. He studies you with a knowing gaze that makes you uncomfortable, like he can ignore everything else and see your shame, your hunger underneath. Like he never stops seeing the shadow of who you are supposed to be, the shadow he saw across a battlefield when you killed that Viking.

Leaning even closer to you, he whispers, “You want death and war, we wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Nothing could stop you if you truly wanted to leave.”

“I do want to leave.”

He doesn’t hesitate, he shakes his head with a downturn of his mouth, disbelieving and nonchalant.

“It’s not all you want. Pretend otherwise if you wish, Priestess, but you want to see those Saxons bleed as much as any of us.”

You lick your lips, tasting wrath and a hint of freedom, but shame keeps your lips sealed, until you can give him the answer you should,

“You kill for entertainment, Viking, don’t compare me to you.” You don’t believe your own words, they sound desperate and frail.

“You made a vow to kill Stithulf, you let him live because you wanted to win before you killed him, isn’t that right? If I said you were free to go tomorrow, would you let go of Stithulf? Would you return to your burnt kingdom or would you finish what you started, hm?” He insists, and at your silence, he laughs darkly. Leaning back, he boasts, “You have thought about it, haven’t you? What you would do were he to be in front of you, were you to _win_.

Gritting your teeth but biting your tongue, you return your eyes to the barren horizon outside the window. You feel the Viking’s piercing gaze on you, but you refuse to acknowledge him.

With a cold and delighted tone in his voice, the Viking continues as he leans closer again, words a breath in your ear,

“Pretend to long only for freedom all you like, but can you say if I were to put a sword in your hands you would still choose to care for the wounded?”

“I can do both,” You bite out, keeping your gaze firmly set ahead. Your head moves to the side, involuntarily giving him access to your neck. You feel hot breaths against your bare skin, and a trail of goosebumps chases after the touch. You find yourself once again hoping he assumes your quickened breath is born out of fear and not lust. “Wanting revenge does not mean I’m without compassion.”

“But revenge comes first, doesn’t it?” He insists, his hand trapping your wrist again and showing you the bloodstains on the sleeve of the old Byzantine dress, the same you wore the day you tasted blood for the first time. Ivar whispers your name, his next words awakening something in you as they reach your ear, “Not very different, you and I.”

You still shake your head, wrenching your hand out of his grasp, “I want to do what is best for my people, I want to be with them.”

“You want to make Stithulf bleed, like you wanted to make that warrior outside the walls bleed.” Ivar corrects, and even if you want to ask him why he is so bent on you accepting this darkness, accepting this shame, this chaos; you instead voice, stubborn,

“That Viking was trying to kill me.”

But he doesn’t let you get away, shaking his head and saying certainly, “You could have run after you injured him. Like when you held that knife in front of the Saxon, you had so many choices. And you chose to hurt.”

Your shame begs you to deny this, to say you never wanted to be anything more than the _Anassa_ that your people needed, to say that even after all the fire and pain you only want to rest your head on fields of wildflowers. But your heart, your heart reminds you that the mantle of the pure and virtuous leader became so suffocating that you gave it to the man that sold you all to the Saxons, reminds you that there’s little you wouldn’t do, including delaying your return to Attica, to make Stithulf suffer.

Still, you shake your head and with hoarse voice argue,

“Priestesses a-…”

Ivar slams a hand on the wall in front of you, interrupting your words, “To Hel with that! What do _you_ want? Your people are gone, you owe nothing to them,” His voice lowers, becomes rougher, _hungrier_ , when he adds, “You are all alone here with me, and I want to hear you speak the truth.”

You close your eyes through a deep breath, trying to voice the responsibilities and wants, the truths and the lies, that bind you and tighten around your throat with every moment you even consider feeling happy in this place, at the side of its King.

Letting yourself fall, you sit on one of the soft chairs and hold on tight to the fur underneath you.

Your voice trembles, and you cannot open your eyes, but you offer anyways, “If I choose this path, if I…choose death, revenge; then w-what kind of leader am I? My people count on me, Ivar, they expect me to be…to be…”

“Someone you are not?” He supplies, and he already knows the answer.

You shrug your shoulders, “Maybe. They followed me, they believed in me. I have to be who they want me to.”

Ivar moves closer, taking a seat next to you with a barely-there grunt of pain.

“You are dead now, though.” He offers quietly.

You open your eyes with a startle, and find him already watching you with his hand by his mouth.

“What?”

Ivar shrugs, as if the answer is clear, “You are here, and they have no idea you survived me. To them, you are dead, in a realm their hopes can’t reach you,” He leans forward again, closer to you. You should want to move away, not closer. The King insists, quietly, intensely, “The Priestess is dead, who will you choose to be now?”

Instead of giving him an answer you don’t have, because that is a question you never asked yourself and no one thought about asking you, you look into his eyes and offer,

“I want Stithulf dead. I want to kill him myself so that when he reaches the Underworld the dead know who he is, and whom he wronged.”

And you realize, as you realized when you first promised to kill that Saxon, that the words are truer than you could have imagined. That the elders back in Eleusis were right, that when you voice things you make them true and dangerous.

You find that you do not mind making that a reality.

The King breathes a delighted laugh, and he looks at you like he’s starving for whatever he sees in you when he focuses his pale eyes. You find yourself having to school your features to keep your mouth from smiling back because even if it hurts, even if it claws at your insides with shame and promises of failure; admitting your darkness somehow makes you a little freer, like you have just let go of an old wreath of flowers.

“Your blood is that of the Greeks’, Priestess, but your heart is like ours.”

______

It unsettles you quite a bit how you don’t seem to need to talk to the Viking for you both to understand a silent agreement. You didn’t leave his room, he didn’t ask you to; and you settled quietly in one of the seats by the window while he walked somewhere behind you to take off the braces of his legs.

Like that night you spent in Dublin, in some house that smelled of old wood; like countless times before, the healer in you wonders how painful those contraptions actually are. A curious part of you wants to ask who designed them, how they came up with them; but you remember his reaction when you looked at him taking them off in Dublin, how he still reacts whenever you turn curious eyes to him when you hear his pain, how even now he chooses to be out of your sight when taking those braces off.

And so you choose to stay silent, not ask a thing.

You covered your legs with one of Ivar’s cloaks, and you tried forgetting the stupidity of trying to spend as much time as possible before he departs with the man that imprisoned you.

When he settles in a seat at your side, you ask some quiet questions about what is to happen in Dublin, what happened before when you were on opposite sides of the battlefield; and surprisingly enough he answers, asking instead some light questions about what happened when you returned to Attica, before you were made Anassa, and you answer, with truths when you should paint tales of lies.

After a few moments of strangely comfortable silence, your thoughts return to Ivar’s words from before, about your heart being like theirs.

_Words of praise to a dead man still trailing from your lips, but your mother is shaking her head, her green eyes on the distant battlefield, “Your Mistress may have touched your soul, but Freyja lays claim to your heart.”_

You take a sip of the honeyed drink to dissolve the knot in your throat, and after a second you chuckle, drawing the attention of the King to you. Before he can open his mouth, you answer the unasked question,

“Sieghild used to say the same thing you did earlier, that my heart was touched by Freyja. She used to boast about how no Greek man would handle a daughter of hers as a wife.”

“I’ve wondered about that,” When you open your mouth to retort he _should very much know_ why you are no easy woman to have as a wife, he gestures with his hand, dismissing the words you haven’t yet said and explaining, “About how you aren’t married already.”

“Why do you assume I’m not?”

“No man that could call you his wife would let himself lose you.”

There’s a compliment underneath that, but you choose only to shrug.

“Well, you are right, I never married.”

“And why is that?”

“Aren’t you the one saying Lady Freyja has fated this to happen? That she deemed me to be yours?”

The moment of hesitation when he considers his answer is enough for you to realize it is not only you he tried convincing when he bellowed you were a gift from the Gods themselves.

Granted, you do not know what to do with that knowledge, but it gives you a strange sense of peace to know he is not as deluded as he seemed before.

When he doesn’t answer, you decide to drop the conversation, and lower your gaze to the drink in your hands.

“You are…” The King’s voice startles you, and you lift your gaze to find his eyes already on you, tracing over your features and studying your expression. He continues, “You are calm about this, about becoming my wife.”

“Do you want me to kick and scream?” You ask, eyes narrowed.

“I want you to be true.” He barks, face tense and his shoulders tightening.

“I am,” You offer truthfully, “For years I have known I would marry a man I did not love. The fact that that man is you is just…a trick of the Gods, to toy with us all.”

“Who were you going to marry?”

“The Commander of the Greek forces, I told you of him.” You reply with ease, even if the reminder of what you did and what could have been make a pang of pain go all the way to your heart.

“You didn’t tell me he was to be your husband.”

The unjustified anger, as if implied you ever lied to him, makes your blood boil. Holding back a roll of your eyes, you snap,

“Well, I didn’t think you would make me a prisoner and force me to marry you when I talked to you about him, so it didn’t seem important at the time,” You shake your head to yourself, and stand up, wiping clean hands on your thighs, “Excuse me.”

“I did not say you could walk away.”

You stop on your tracks, your lips curving into a cold smile as you close your eyes, “Of course, how stupid of me to forget I’m a prisoner.”

“You are not a prisoner, you are to be my wife.”

You turn to him, crossing your arms over your chest. He remains sitting, but you still feel small.

Regardless, you push, “That just puts a crown on my head, but I still have chains set on me, don’t I?”

Instead of arguing further, the King leans forward in his seat, and with eyes searching yours, he demands to know,

“Why him?”

“What?”

“Why was it you accepted marrying him? Surely he wasn’t the only one interested in you.”

“He was a good man,” You start, but you are transported back to the battle outside Dublin, with Sieghild’s eyes on the distant battle, though you now know they were on the youngest son of Ragnar, as she whispers, _not good enough, and your Gods and mine know that, little one_. Swallowing past the bitter taste of hindsight, you continue, “He would have made a good husband, but ultimately…the reason was convenience.”

Ivar doesn’t ask what happened to him, why you still mourn him if it was a business deal, no. He asks, “What did he offer you?”

“I _asked_ for his sword arm, his army. I wanted my Kingdom back in my hands and free from the Christians and their God,” You answer, sincerely. And with a small chuckle, remembering Sieghild’s words, you add, “No small bride-price.”

“What made him agree to it?”

The smile you offer is tremulous, hopelessness and regret all in one.

“Love.” You croak, your shame making your eyes fall from his.

His tongue runs over his lower lip as he considers you in silence, before finally seeming to agree with you judging by the subtle nod he gives before taking another gulp from his drink.

You watch silently as his eyes leave yours, traveling over the room and focusing on something past the windows. After an eternity, he turns to you,

“What is the moon to you, Priestess?”

“I’m sorry?”

He shrugs, “To us, she is a woman. A beautiful woman, alluring, _perfect_ ,” He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, turning instead towards the opening in the room and looking over the stars, the moon that crosses the skies. “But she is not a woman you can trust. She fools men into doing her bidding, promises them her favor, her love. And when she is done with them, she betrays them, leaves them.”

You frown, and swallow down the shame, instead offering a feeble excuse, “We are bound from birth to rules, to ideas, to…prisons, simply because of who we are. Women learn to play with hearts because we are not allowed to play with swords.”

He offers a slight smile, but it is insincere and it hurts at a part of you that is still hopeful, that is still trusting and soft and _true_.

But it seems he understands, because if anyone could it would be him, for he sighs and looks back at the skies.

“What is the moon to you?” He insists quietly.

You return to your seat and face the same window, looking over the same sky, awed and devastated at the knowledge that this foreign darkness is the same sky that stretches over your home.

“She is a woman. She is a woman free and…foolish. It is her chariot that moves the moon at night, as she roams the skies. Yet so long ago she made the mistake of loving a mortal man, a man Fate doesn’t allow her to be with, for they do not belong to the same world. Free to roam the skies but bound by something as foolish as love, that is our moon.”

You remember your mother telling you this story, the mother of gentle caresses and relentless hope. The mother of sad eyes, the mother of charred flesh and lost wars.

You remember her telling you that between love and duty one must always win. Between legacy, between _nature_ , and love, hope; one will always prevail, for it seems the Gods entertain themselves by making us choose.

The King remains silent, and you wonder for the first time what your mother chose. Because you remember her loud laughs, her bright eyes, her happiness; just as you remember her defeat, her pain, her hopelessness.

Maybe she chose love? In your mind you see her hands fixing your father’s armor as she sports a soft smile, holding onto him and laughing as he lifts you up over his head, kissing his lips as he is to depart for yet another campaign.

Or did she choose duty? Because you can also remember the quiet prayers she would teach you, the secretly woven tales late at night, the carved figures and hidden statuettes of the Gods she gave you to hide in the temple.

Did she try choosing both? Is that why she lost?

You shake your head, choosing to ignore those questions that do nothing but confuse you, and instead take a sip of the still warm infusion.

After a few moments, Ivar starts,

“Why didn’t you lie? Why didn’t you ask that of _me_?”

This draws your attention, and your back straightens, your heart quickens and a knot of uncertainty and dread grows in your chest.

“Would you agree?” You ask, startled, “Why?”

He considers you in silence for a few moments, enough that the knot in your chest grows tighter and tighter. But eventually he just adjusts himself in his seat, and drinks from his goblet of mead before insisting,

“I asked you a question first.”

His eyes are always searching, you would dread the day you look into his pale gaze and not see the annoying curiosity, the infuriating interest in the meaning behind your words and your actions.

And in that gaze, past the seeking nature of it, you have always seen sincerity. Even if encased in the cruel mask of the King of Kattegat, even if viciously euphoric with the power he wields, even if brutish and demanding and infuriating; you have not seen lies.

It may be your foolish heart trying to promise you it is not so dreadful here, that there can be life born from this death, that there’s a way the cold and hard earth of this realm can gift you the same flower fields your home once did. But you choose to believe the Gods wouldn’t be as cruel as to dangle such hope over hungry lips.

So you offer him the truth, the truth that aches and trembles as it leaves your lips, “The Priestess is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I have no fucking clue how the moon was percieved in Norse mythology, what Ivar says is based loosely on what the show portrays, I don’t remember the episode but it’s a conversation between Ivar and the Bishop. The Greek myth on the moon tho, is based on some stories of Selene and how she fell in love with this dude that now by some accounts sleeps forever and by others has been turned into a cricket after Zeus acted predictably like a dick.


	17. Chapter 17

You can certainly say the people of Kattegat have surprised you. A few days since the King’s announcement that you are to be his wife, their queen, and yet the whispers, the curious eyes; they don’t seem to be any louder or more insistent than before they knew of who you’ll become once their King returns.

You are grateful, you cannot pretend otherwise. To be normal, or as normal as can be in these strange times, it is a luxury you do not take for granted.

So, as it is your new normal, you help the women at the apothecary every day, learning more and more, and yet also having opportunities to teach them better ways. The Gods made you smart, and they also made you arrogant, you are not one to deny it, which is why you and a warrior-like woman have been arguing on how to treat a simple but deep wound for quite a while now.

“We have always done it this way.” The blonde woman argues, but you shake your head.

“That doesn’t mean it is the best way,” You stir the boiling water, pour it over the wine mixed with vinegar and offer it to the woman. “Trust me, I was a healer all over the Mediterranean and the Silk Roads. I know what works best.”

“Arrogant little witch, aren’t you?”

You cock your head to the side and curve your mouth downwards, doubtful, “Is it truly arrogance if it’s founded on actual skill?”

She blinks but then softens her expression, and with a rueful smile on her lips she says, “If your tongue is just as wicked when you face the King, I pity the poor fool.”

“Are any of you going to clean this or sho-…” The warrior sitting in the ground grumbles, but the blonde woman silences him with a hit to the top of his head.

“Shush,” Her eyes remain on you and after a breath she extends a hand, “Fine, give me that water.”

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“He’s Viking, he can take it.” She offers with a sly smile, that quickly falls at your mocking glare when the man squirms and groans as the hot mixture is used to clean the wound on his shoulder.

When the man leaves with a dressed wound that will remain clean thanks to your help, the woman brings the big bowl of fresh water so you can both wash your hands.

As you do, she concedes, “Your ways are proving to be useful, witch.”

“I have a name.” You quip quietly, your voice a grumble. The Viking woman chuckles.

“I know. But ‘witch’ is not an insult, at least to us. It’s a title. You wage war, you sit next to the King, you are welcomed in any hearth.”

“I am no Völva.” You argue calmly, recognizing the traits and benefits she lists as those of a traveling Viking Völva.

“What would you be, back in your home?”

“Dead.” You reply dryly, to which the woman laughs. Clasping a heavy hand on your shoulder, she says,

“I’m Valdís, _witch._ ”

You roll your eyes, but accept the title and her offered seat on the table near the hearth. She passes you an apple and a knife, and you start quietly cutting little sticks for you to eat.

Lifting your gaze to her and watching her toy with a pear and a knife in her own hands, you ask, “Fine, I’m a witch. What are you?”

“A mother. I used to be a shieldmaiden, but…”

“You got married?” You supply when her words die, but the blonde shakes her head with another low, raspy laugh.

“As if a cock could keep a Viking woman from her shield,” She boasts crudely, strikingly reminding you of Sieghild for a moment. The doors to the shop open again, and Freydis walks in, empty basket on one arm and coin pouches on the other. You greet her with a smile, and she returns it as she shrugs off the cloak and takes a seat by your side. Valdís continues her explanation quietly, “No, I did not lay down my shield for marriage. I was…captured during a raid in Wessex. They injured my sword arm badly, and I cannot fight anymore.”

“And your child…” You start, but the words die out, like saying it out loud would make her pain real, like you need to let her decide if she voices this.

Valdís squares her shoulders, strong and unmoving as she says, “He is mine, he is Viking. But…yes, he was…the Saxons forced themselves upon me.”

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“I don’t need your sympathy.”

“You Varangians are so strange. It’s not an insult to be offered compassion.” You tell her. She narrows her eyes, chewing in silence.

“What about you? You weren’t here last winter.” Valdís asks instead of answering, turning sharp focus to Freydis.

The blond girl shuffles in her seat before giving her answer. You eye her with concern and curiosity.

“I’m-…I used to be a thrall. I was freed by a son of Ragnar.”

_Why doesn’t she say it was Ivar?_

“Surprising he didn’t ask you to marry him,” Valdís huffs, and at your look shrugs and explains, “Those brothers have always had a thing for blonde thralls.”

“Slaves don’t get their hands asked for, Valdís.” Freydis quips, and you catch sight of her fingers playing with one another nervously where they rest on her lap.

“My personal thrall has a husband I have met, and children of her own. What are you on about, girl?”

Even if Valdís sounds gruff, you catch a genuine silver of concern, of care, in the woman’s eyes when she regards the frail girl that seems unbreakable and fragile at the same time.

You remain silent, and wait for Freydis to speak again. She does so, quietly, cautiously.

“We are not-…Slaves don’t fall in love, we just get husbands, slaves don’t have…families, we just birth children. Like animals.”

You do not try to stop your hand from finding hers, stopping the maddening twisting of her fingers and bringing her blue eyes to you. With certainty, you say, “First of all, you are not a slave anymore. And you were never, and never will be, an animal, Freydis.”

But she shakes her head, resolute like that day she tried convincing you the Gods marked you favorites for having endured a world of pain, “You don’t understand, witch. Slaves are not people, you cannot love them, you cannot trust them.”

“Says who? Men in power?” Valdís spits out, bitter chuckle on her lips, “Just because of the Gods we follow we are not people if you ask the Christians. Will you let them say if you are a person or not?”

“No.” The blonde girl bites out, voice wavering even in such a short vocalization. You squeeze her hand, but don’t know what to say.

“Then don’t let others, even our own, tell you that because of capture or birth you are not a woman like any other,” She sounds so motherly you have to bite back a smile. With certainty, the woman continues, “We are all children of the Gods, you are a child of Freyja. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m-…If Freyja looks over me, why…why did I suffer like I did?”

“Because suffering is what makes us human, and who we are,” You supply without hesitation, offering her a sad smile at the truth you had a hard time accepting as well, “How else would you be able to stand tall today and heal your own wounds, fight for what you want, enjoy what you have; without knowing what it’s like to hurt without remedy, to want and be left wanting, to lack and have nothing?”

The mangy black cat that belongs to the shop by now jumps swiftly into Freydis’ lap, and she absent-mindedly starts petting it as she talks,

“So the Gods mark us for pain? You said-…”

You interrupt her words, not wanting to argue this again even if you know now that the deluded notion of pain being a badge of pride is not so certain in her mind.

With another squeeze of her hand, you offer, “Suffering is not preordained, no. Pain, scars, misfortune, they are not proof of the favor of the Gods.”

“Then why-…You were born under the sigil of your Goddess, and you told me you almost burned alive,” You flinch slightly at the reminder, the soft touch of the linens of your dress against the scars burning like the Christian’s fire for a moment. You steal a nervous glance to Valdís, who watches you with wide eyes, and return shameful eyes to Freydis. The blonde girl continues, “You should have died then, but your Gods kept you alive, gave you their favor, their love.”

“The scars I bear are not proof of my Goddess’ love.”

“Your Goddess’ love carried you here!” The girl insists, eyes wide, “You stood in chains in front of Ivar the Boneless and had him release you. You stand at his side, you whisper in his ear, you _have power_.”

Her words make you pause for a moment, feeling you are witness to the darker side of the blonde girl for the first time since you arrived. She talked with you about lying to get your freedom, she asked about you seducing Ivar in exchange for what he gave you, and now she boasts about you being by his side like a conquest, as if nothing but a crown and power make up the Viking King.

You decide not to dwell on it, but you still release her hand and straighten in your seat. She notices, you know she does, but says nothing.

“No one’s _love_ carried me here, Freydis,” Your voice may sound colder than before, and on the edge of your vision you catch Valdis raising her eyebrows and looking away. Still, you continue, “Sometimes pain is just pain. I don’t know about your Gods, but mine are-…In my home wise men said it takes strength greater than that of believing the Gods guide our every step to accept the Gods sometimes look away from their creations.”

“So they let us suffer?” Freydis asks, frowning.

A loud groan interrupts you, and you both turn to see Valdís throwing her head back where she sits, dragging rough hands over her face.

“Enough with this. Leave it to old and boring men to discuss the wills of the Gods.” She grumbles, earning a small laugh from you.

The days moves on slowly, though you notice the elders in the apothecary start ordering all of you to work more and more on healing salves and presses, making you wonder what the aftermath of a raid or a battle is like for the healers of Kattegat.

After a few days since meeting the former shieldmaiden, you are invited to join the women of the apothecary on the baths, and curiosity as to how similar these could be to roman public baths wins over your modesty, and you accept.

As you walk there, hearing Freydis hum a strange tune behind you, you catch Valdís, the dark-haired shieldmaiden stretching her stride to walk at your side as the group approaches the baths.

“So, witch.”

“So, shieldmaiden.” You reply, to which she offers a small smile as she meets your eyes.

“King Ivar said Sieghild Vorsdottir is the woman who raised you, who claims you as her daughter,” You nod slowly, not sure where she is going with this, “But she isn’t here, and you are to be a new bride soon.”

Your eyes narrow, and you steal a glance to Freydis as she moves closer to your side, very obviously wanting to hear this conversation.

“What are you on about?”

“You have no one to help you…shed the title of maiden,” Valdís explains, smirk devilish, “To prepare you to be a wife.”

“Not that any of us can prepare her to be the wife of Ivar the Boneless.” A woman quips from behind you, earning a chuckle from a few others in the group.

“My point is, we could use this time to teach you.”

“Teach me.” You repeat, and her smile only turns much more mischievous.

“Of course!” She turns to one of the elders, gesturing with a muscular arm, “Isn’t that tradition? Aren’t we to share our wisdom?”

The woman considers her in silence, though you could swear there’s a small smile betraying at her lips.

“I’m too old for this.” She mutters in response, but Valdís only laughs.

The baths are warm, warmer than any room you’ve been in, and though your hair hates the humidity, you sigh in pleasure at the almost-suffocating warmth.

You undress with ease, and it is only when you are readying to enter the bath turning your back to them that you realize what they may have seen.

The scars. Burn scars, not as bad as they could have been but still there, still present and marring.

They run over the outside of your right thigh, climbing over your hip into part of your back, almost up to your ribs. A gift from the Byzantines, so that you remember what happens to _pagans_.

“Are those burn scars, witch?” One of the women asks, and you turn around with gritted teeth.

Offering only a nod in response, but you cannot bring yourself to say anything more.

“Burnt alive for refusing to worship the Christian God, or so they say.” Valdís offers in your place, no hesitation in her voice, and no shame either, you notice, as she sheds her clothing as well and bares her strong yet scarred and marked body for everyone to see as she approaches the large stone tub as well.

It makes you feel much more at ease, even if it wasn’t her intention, seeing she has scars too, she has marks too. Not that the women that traveled with you are without their marks and badges of honor, but…the mark of war on a woman is something to be ashamed of, at least where you come from.

“No different than a scar from a sword or an axe,” She states confidently, bowing her head in recognition with a small smile on her face, “Glory to you, Greek.”

You offer her a small smile of your own, and get into the hot water.

“Thank you.” You offer sincerely, and go under the water to get your hair wet, silently pleading with them that the conversation finds an end. It does.

Conversation diffuses between the women soon enough, and the loud laugh of the shieldmaiden echoes in the walls, but you find yourself…comfortable, safe, even if the weight of what kind of failure this comfort, this ease you feel in this land means sets on your chest and almost keeps you from breathing if you think about it too much.

“So, about what we ought to teach you.” Valdís presses, drawing a groan from you.

“Would you leave the poor girl be?” Someone quips, but she dismisses them with a gesture.

“Witch,” Valdís -who you are noticing more and more has no qualms about keeping her mouth shut, reminding you strikingly of Sieghild- asks, moving closer to you in the large tub, “Do you know how to please a man?”

_Oh, Gods._

“Yes.” You bite out, resisting the urge to close your eyes in mortification and hoping to everything there is on this earth, let it be Persephone or Freyja, that she doesn’t push this.

“But do you know how to please a _Viking_?”

“No matter what I say, you will talk anyways, won’t you?”

She only gives you a look that says you should know the answer already, before laughing. You groan, and lower your face further into the waters, igniting a laugh out of the other women.

_____

The routines of spending the days at the apothecary, exchanging secrets and tales with Freydis and loud laughs with Valdís, sharing short conversations with the other women, watching and learning and teaching; they quickly become a source of warmth and familiarity in this cold and strange land.

Even more now that Ivar is gone. You have no shame in admitting you have…grown used to him. Maybe that’s what hurts the most, what feels the most like failure; the fact that you have grown to enjoy his company, to hope for something more than resentment, to see him not quite as you did in Aneridge, but differently all the same. And the Gods made you too arrogant and proud to admit it to anyone but yourself, but you do miss him while he is gone. His curious eyes, his endless questions, his taunts and his infuriating stubbornness.

Prince Hvitserk has kept you company, and you offer murmured greetings each time you cross paths and maybe exchange a few words during dinner. It is more than you could ask for, and you think is all you should want. You have always had a soft heart, and not even Kattegat’s cold or its cruel King could harden it; and…a soft heart brings forth familiarity, care, affection. You have no use for neither, for you cannot forget the chains set upon you.

If you forget the chains, it will feel like a choice to remain here. And this is not a choice you can make.

You keep reminding yourself not to forget what brought you here, not to forget the chains set upon you, not to forget that you _do not belong here_ ; even as you occupy your day with a foolish and sentimental project.

You run into Hvitserk as you are carrying an armful of wooden planks -that you may or may not have exchanged a necklace for- to your rooms.

“What are you doing, woman?” He asks, and when he offers you, not demands, to take the heavy wood and carry it for you, you accept with a smile.

“I’m…making planters in my rooms,” The Prince still looks at you like you grew a second head, so you add, “I like plants. Herbs and flowers.” You offer as your sole answer, shrugging your shoulders.

When you reach the doors to your rooms, you hesitate, and the Prince offers you a smile.

“I can help you make them.”

“Is that…proper? For a man to be in a woman’s rooms?” You ask lowly, but the laugh you startle out of the young man takes away any secrecy you expected to get.

He pushes open the door with his shoulder and walks in, you trailing behind him.

“‘Proper’. You spent too much time with Christians, witch,” He chuckles, and drops the planks where you point him to. Crossing his legs underneath him as he sits on your floor, he motions for you to do the same. “If it’s my brother you are worried about, I’ll handle him.”

You thank him with a smile, tremulous as it is, and help him as you both work in amicable company, exchanging snippets of stories, quiet laughs and easy smiles.

“The King,” You start cautiously, and the Prince nods, giving you permission to talk, “Has he always been so…?”

“Usually worse,” He bites out when your words die, hitting particularly harder than needed at a nail as he does so. “You keep him preoccupied.”

“Should I be worried?” You say with a smile, scooting as you reach your favorite window and measuring for the perfect length of a planter to set there.

“He listens to you more than me, witch, I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

“You don’t get along?” You ask even if you already know the answer, readying a few nails to start forming an angle for a planter.

“My brother and I…we are bound to kill each other, I think.” He says, and you lift your gaze in surprise as your hand already moves the hammer down.

The hammer falls down on your finger with all your strength.

“No! Why would you say that!?” You say, sticking the hurt digit into your mouth as you frown at the Prince.

He laughs in response to your clumsiness, but there’s a burden in his eyes. Hvitserk shrugs,

“I risked it all to stand by his side when Ubbe almost turned his back on him, Odin knows if there’s a reason why our brother is not with Lagertha wherever she has run off to now is because of me,” He mutters, and you stay silent, thinking to yourself it seems like it has been too long since someone sat to hear him speak, “Ivar wouldn’t have held on to Kattegat for this long if it wasn’t for me.”

“But you do not want to take Kattegat from him.” You offer quietly, not even a question. Hvitserk presses his lips into a line, seemingly overwhelmed.

“I never wanted to be King. Neither does Ubbe, the throne…Even if you don’t agree and he doesn’t believe I think so, I know Ivar is the best choice to be King of Kattegat,” The young man shakes his head, and he looks much more fragile than you ever thought he could look. You get closer and lay a hand on his arm, as comforting you can be without feeling like you are being ‘too touchy’ like Sieghild used to chastise you for. Hvitserk furrows his lips with no little anger, and continues, “Ivar is my brother and I will always stand with him, I just want the arrogant little fuck to acknowledge what I have done and continue to do for him.”

You have no idea what happened between the three brothers, you assume whatever it was caused the breach and struggle for dominance that permeates the air every time Ubbe and Ivar discuss battle or matters of the city; but you listen to Hvitserk with a compassionate smile on your lips and offer the best you can.

“If you want to talk, my Prince, I am always here.”

Surprisingly enough, he does.

He tells you of their allegiance with Bjorn Ironside and others to avenge the death of Ragnar Lothbrok. You needn’t be told of the Great Heathen Army and the fear and awe it inspired in its enemies and allies, for the words reached all the way to Carthage when the Vikings moved against Aelle. But Hvitserk tells you, and he tells you of the struggles of the men at the helm of the forces and how as the eldest son of Ragnar sailed South, their brother Sigurd married to warrant a degree of peace, and King Harald moved back to Norway with a new Queen; the three sons of Aslaug where left to be the leaders.

He tells you of Ivar pushing to take control from his brothers, of Ubbe being at the brink of breaking away from Ivar and turn against him if needed. He tells you of facing both of his brothers and reminding them of their blood shared, even if vows made, if ambitions clashing, if old pain and rancor, threatened to pull them apart.

He tells you of the marches for York, of many cities raided and pillaged. He tells you of the land granted for a settlement, of the funding of Dublin and the struggles for power that took place there. He tells you of the battles and blood that got Ivar to be King of Kattegat, and he confides that even if he appreciates and sees the change in his younger brother and how he is trying to appease him with by making both his and Ubbe’s voices heard when it comes to matters of war and the Kingdom; Ivar still treats him like nothing more than a dog, always mistrusting and always cold towards him.

“I’m sure he loves you.” You offer quietly, but the Prince does not look at you, instead toying with a piece of wood between his fingers.

“Ivar loves nothing.” He corrects quickly.

You shake your head, the hand on his arm squeezing to call for his attention. When he looks up at you he looks young and open, but his expression speaks of tiredness and resentment.

“You don’t believe that.” You promise quietly, to which he answers with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

Soon enough you both finish the planters, and you both bring the earth and branches needed to make the layers. Whispering prayers you carry in your heart alongside the secrets of the Thesmophoria, you water the earth and promise it care and seeds for growth.

The seeds will have to wait until you can get some, but the knowledge that fertile earth surrounds you fills you with a certain degree of peace. Even if this cold city kills you, you will force life and spring upon it. If you have to feed the flowers with your blood then so be it.

Hvitserk calls for your attention telling you he thinks he knows a little bit of Greek, and as you start getting horrified by his attempts at your language while he butchers it unwillingly, you both walk outside side by side.

Conversation starts on other topics soon after, and he tells you of the strange people he has met while handling Kattegat’s commerce influx and trade deals, which, paired with the way he recalls the stories with gestures and voices and expressions, makes your laugh louder than you have released it in so long.

Your giggles die down as you take a sip from your tea, and the Prince leans forward on the balcony railing, sighing.

“For all your strange ways, you seem…honest, witch.” He says, eyes on the horizon. You join him quietly, overlooking the cold city.

“If you were to ask the woman who raised me, she would say it is due to my arrogance that keeps me from being able to shut up,” You offer with a smile, “But thank you, my Prince.”


	18. Chapter 18

Freydis walks at your side, arm hooked with yours as you both return to the apothecary after you delivered the infusions to help against a fever to the blacksmith, and she breaks the comfortable silence with a murmur of your name.

You turn to her, but she doesn’t look at you, instead looking ahead, in the direction of the sea.

“Do you still insist on going back to your home?”

Your steps falter for a second, and you are certain she notices, but says nothing of it.

You know that right now words about how you undoubtedly want to return to Attica should be leaving your lips, you know you should feel affronted at her even asking that question, you know you shouldn’t doubt.

But you do, you do because in all the strange customs and in all the binding chains you found a freedom in this land like you haven’t felt before. Not even ruling over Attica, not even the title of Anassa, could let you ignore the should be’s and the legacy at your back and the expectations.

Here, even chained to a man you do not love, even forced to follow a cruel King’s commands, even powerless; you find yourself feeling free when you can be while forgetting who you are supposed to be.

Yet like a part of you as vital as your heart is missing, you find yourself longing to see Attica again. Feel the warm sun on your skin, breathing in the clear and fresh air that rolls over those hills, honoring your Gods before their temple as you should.

It tastes like guilt, and it clogs at your throat, to be reminded that you feel a certain freedom here while your home burns and dies, while your Gods are forgotten and ignored, while your people lie dead or dying.

You look into Freydis’ eyes, and you don’t have an answer. You think she knows, for she only shrugs and looks ahead again.

“You don’t have to answer,” She soothes, and after a few moments of silence, she speaks up again, a devious edge to her voice, “Have you got any plans for the wedding?”

Right. That.

When Ivar returns, which shouldn’t be much longer from now, you know you are to become his wife, to become Queen of Kattegat. Your blood runs cold at the prospect of having more binds, of having another crown you’re unworthy of put on your head.

You offer her a sigh and a grumbled, “Let’s just enjoy the silence, alright?”

You think you hear her giggle to herself, but you choose not to dwell on it. You continue walking the streets, finding a few familiar faces, being greeted with sincere smiles, passing touches, or respectful nods.

The familiarity, the comfortable way you now move between the people of this city, the friendly faces and gestures, it helps you feel not so alone, not so much of a foreign witch anymore.

A young girl runs through the streets, shouting that the ships are approaching, the warriors have returned. Like many others, you find your feet carrying you to the docks before you know what is happening.

The impressive Viking ships, with their carved dragons and snakes and figures, are close to docking, and your foolish heart makes you search for a familiar face in the closest boats.

“You’ve missed him, haven’t you?” Freydis comments, surprised yet somewhat delighted.

You roll your eyes, grumbling, “I said silence.”

She laughs again, and with a grunted curse in your own tongue you kick her shin, only succeeding in making her laugh harder.

Your own lips curve into a smile, a breathy laugh you pretend is because of her and not the relief of seeing the familiar ships approach leaving your lips.

When the soldiers start disembarking you notice more than anything the smell of blood and death that permeates the air. You would say Achlys runs unbound, but this mist of war is not one of wariness, of sadness, or pain; and instead it is one of satisfaction, of quenched thirst and release.

Ivar uses his arms to crawl out of the ship, and two of his men help him to his feet. Your eyes meet his and not even if you tried could you stop your feet from taking you to him.

He offers a murmur of your name, still foreign and familiar in his accented voice, and you find yourself releasing a breath you had no reason to be holding.

You could swear his lips curve into a soft smile, his eyes lingering on yours with what a foolish woman would call affection. He nods his head in response to your question.

“He still lives, got away from us,” He tells you quietly, and you don’t have to ask who he means. Relief you didn’t expect to feel courses through you, and you close your eyes with a nod. “But he will be yours to kill.”

“What?”

“Your mother was gifted a bear’s head in exchange for her hand,” He states, with his mouth downturned in nonchalance and a shrug of his shoulders, “I’ll give you Stithulf’s.”

“I didn’t ask for it.” You remind him, but the Viking only smiles at you, tongue tracing over his lower lip and eyes telling you he can see past pretenses.

You sigh, and in a moment of foolish bravery you lay a hand over his armored chest, right over his heart, looking up at him and offering an honest smile.

“I’m glad you are back,” You whisper, wary of anyone listening. You take a step back quickly enough, and state, “I’ll meet with you tonight.”

“Where are you going?”

“I must tend to the wounded, Varangian.” You quip as you step away, your steps light and free as you remind him of the first conversation between the two of you.

____

You realize now thinking that though the night before their departure the Vikings were loud and boisterous, nothing could compare to the night after their return.

Music, games, more than a few fights and just…chaos reign in the main hall. 

Ivar had them set a chair by his throne, but you made a point of choosing to sit on one of the tables, with Freydis and some people you don’t recognize.

“Move.” Freydis states without moving her gaze from her plate, and you don’t have time to turn to her and question her when she has wrapped a thin arm around your midriff and dragged you away from the corner of the bench where you were sitting.

A very drunk Prince Hvitserk falls on the spot you were at with a loud laugh, a laugh that the brunette on his lap shares.

“Gods above.” You mutter to yourself, standing up only for a dancing shieldmaiden to run into you, making you stumble.

She shouts an apology, but you’re already striding through the room towards the King, who watches you approach with lifted eyebrows and an annoyingly smug expression.

You take the seat at his side and cross your arms over your chest.

After a few hours the initial ruckus has died down, and you accompany Ivar to one of the tables closer to the throne, where his brother’s sit, though Hvitserk seems to be dozing off on the shoulder of that brunette from earlier, who is casually engaging in conversation with a shieldmaiden at Ubbe’s side.

Turning to the King, you start quietly,

“You don’t seem to be as merry as the others.”

“I’m not like the others.” He points out dryly, and you acquiesce with a nod but still insist,

“Not what I meant, but alright.”

“That damn Christian toyed with us, did you know?” Ivar bites out, “Made us go to Dublin, lured us out and all we got is a few dead men. On both sides.”

Ivar leans forward, resting his forearms on the table and looking down at it with the clear signs of gritted teeth and tense shoulders. You adjust yourself in your seat so your body is facing the side of his.

After a breath you ask, “Tell me what happened across the sea.”

He regards you in silence for a few moments, enough that you start to regret your words, but finally acquiesces.

“You were right, they didn’t approach the city. They were waiting for us to arrive,” For a moment you watch conflict take over his expression, as if debating with himself whether to say something else or not. Finally, he adds, “But they were already retreating by the time we attacked, we didn’t get so many of them for it to be…enough.”

“Enough?” You question quietly, and the King grits his teeth and nods, reaching for his cup and drinking deeply before speaking again.

“Stithulf managed to do his share of damage at our numbers before Aneridge. You said it yourself, Greeks and Arabs gave him his edge. We need to wound his remaining numbers before he can recover and strike again,” The man speaks quickly, and when he lifts his gaze to you, he seems almost surprised at his own words. A few beats of silence go by between you, and you refuse to be the one to break it. “Hvitserk is sure they expected us to follow the trail they retreated through, and sacrifice those ambushing us so the rest of their men could reach a safe haven during the distraction.” Ivar continues, voice low and rough, as if sharing a secret.

“There’s a city he mentioned many times, I never saw it in a map, but it was a fishing town, Strepshire,” You tell him, and at his confusion, at the question his lips part to ask, you answer, “They assumed I wouldn’t listen, or understand.”

In your emphasis it is clear what you mean, what you warn him of: don’t do the same.

A smile he holds back, a smile you would think is a proud one, curves his lips seemingly against his will, and he acknowledges your words with a gesture, before looking ahead at the fist and drinking again.

You do the same, watching with interest the two men that participate in some sort of game where they tied rope around their heads and each one pulls on a different direction.

You are about to ask him how that works when he speaks up, leaning closer to you and with his mouth closer to your ear than you expected.

“They have been sending scouts here, you know.”

“To Kattegat?” You ask, but your mind is on something you pondered on during those first days in Aneridge. Sometimes, when Ivar tells you something, it is not as if he’s willingly sharing something with you, but rather that he doesn’t know how not to.

Like the words are trapped right behind his lips waiting for a chance to be said, like the desire for companionship outweighs the reluctance to share truths.

“Mhm. Each time closer and closer to the walls.”

“They don’t have the numbers to lay siege…do they?”

“I don’t know. If they are this willing to lose men just to taunt us into sailing for Dublin…” He frowns when his words stop, his lip curving in disgust. Ivar leans forward, cold blue eyes studying the room around you, the people in it. You have a feeling that his eyes see not only the Kattegat of today that celebrates the return, but also that of his childhood, of his past. Like the marble pillars of the temple in Eleusis, that covered in soot from the pyres they burned your fellow Hiereiai on still looked as beautiful as when your mother lived. Ivar clenches his jaw, and his hand closes into a fist on the table where he rests his arms. You say nothing, waiting for him to speak. “It doesn’t matter, we’ll find and kill them all before they can get the support they need.”

You have no idea when you two got so close, your weight resting almost entirely on the table and your arms almost touching where they rest; but you refuse to be the first one to move. After clearing your throat quietly, you ask, “Do you always chase for Saxons like this?”

“Only the ones stupid enough to try to attack Kattegat.” Ivar says, a twitch in his cheek telling you of gritted teeth.

Your eyes take him in as if new, and you find yourself feeling a pride, a respect, you didn’t expect to feel for the man that would bathe in blood rather than water.

You may not know exactly the circumstances that brought him to be King of this place, but if there’s something you can understand is the drive to protect the land you deem yours, even if all you have to stand in front of is an old temple and deserted houses. 

As night progresses you continue asking questions about anything that comes to your mind, and, surprisingly enough, the King humors your curiosity.

“When I first saw you on that field, you couldn’t hold the weight of a sword.” Ivar states, leaning back and regarding you with curious eyes. You offer a shrug.

“I still can’t.”

“But you are interested in war.”

“The king you told me about, Alexander of Macedonia,” The Varangian woman asks, the fire warming you and her alike, “Why did your father admire him?”

It almost feels like she’s one of the tutors your mother used to hire, but you answer anyways, “Because of his tactics, the phalanx and parentaxis made the Greek army something to be feared, and are used even today.”

She tosses a branch to you, and smooths the earth at your feet with a heavy boot.

“Explain why,” She orders, and at your confused stare grunts, “His tactics, show them to me.”

“Why?”

This time the next branch she throws hits your head, purposely judging by the inked woman’s smirk. You sigh, and start drawing in the sand.

“If you won’t learn to fight, I will teach you to wage war.” Is all the explanation she offers.

“My mother, Sieghild, she…she taught me most of what I know. I owe it all to her.”

And with your words you realize you should trust the brutish and strong woman that became your mother in these passing years. You should trust her beyond the moment of calm and rationality, you should trust her even when the binds that are to be set upon you soon close around your throat and panic sets in.

She threatened Narses with death if he dared lay a hand on you; she promised to be willing to burn Eleusis to the ground if it kept you alive; she broke her own heart many times -and other times you may never know of- to keep you safe, and happy.

You will trust in her, and you will remember her words.

Make the ground where you are defeated become the realm where you will conquer. Survive, until spring comes.

“They say we live on in our children,” Ivar states, somewhat bitterly. “Her legacy is in good hands. She raised an insufferable woman, but she raised her well.”

You narrow his eyes at his taunt, but you still smile. Wider, freer, easier, than you ever did before, you think.

“I wonder if you’d say that to her face.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Her daughter hasn’t killed me yet, why would she?”

Your smile turns softer as you are faced with what your foolish heart wants to say as to what reasons you have not to kill him that Sieghild doesn’t share, but you keep quiet, offering only a smile and what you hope aren’t truths shining in your eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

It was sheer stubbornness that made you refuse the slave girl’s help braiding your hair, choosing instead for the soft curls and loose updos of your homeland. And it was your stupid pride that made you refuse the fur cloak offered, making you shiver uncontrollably now even as you sit near the fire.

Still, you vow to stand for the unyielding cold and do your best to listen to what the men discussing war are saying, past the chattering of your own teeth.

“You said their reinforcements would c-…Y/N,” The King calls out, irritation clear in his tone as he regards you with a frown. He lets out a long sigh, “What’s the matter.”

It’s not a question, not a demand. It’s a tired offer, and for some reason it makes a slightly hysterical chuckle leaves your lips.

“I’m cold.” You offer as sheepishly as you can. You hear Hvitserk huff a laugh.

Ivar rolls his eyes in response, a groan of frustration bubbling past his lips.

The reminder that you get on his nerves as much as he gets on yours softens your smile somewhat. Sieghild always cursed your soft and foolish heart, and she was right to do so, righter that you will ever admit.

If the night Ivar told you manically of how you were destined to meet him, of how he was forcing you to be his wife; someone had told you when the day came that you were told casually _‘arrangements have been made, we’ll be married in a week’_ you wouldn’t feel the inescapable itch to run away, the desperation to crawl out of your own skin -like you did every time you were reminded one day you might marry Narses, even though it burns at the nostalgia in your heart to remember being at his side felt like death-; you would call them a deluded fool, claim that you’d die before letting a man defeat you, silence you so that you don’t fight.

But that is not the case, it has not been for a while. You do not want these binds, you do not want to be a queen or a wife or anything of the sort; but you choosing not to fight doesn’t mean you are defeated. Far from it.

As to why you choose not to, that is a question you do not have the courage to answer now.

It may be the dangerous familiarity that wraps around you like vines and tries to make you think of this strange realm as a home, it may be the promise of being able to one day get revenge on the people you lost because of Stithulf’s war. It may be something else, but for now, when the answers will do nothing to help, you don’t think much of it.

And so you offer the King a sheepish shrug, keeping your eyes on his.

A warm fur cloak lands on your head without any warning, but you do not hesitate to wrap yourself in it, enjoying the residual warmth and looking back at its owner with a question written in your face.

Ivar does not answer, but narrows his eyes and speaks again, “Where do the Christians’ resources come from? You said there was a city supporting them.”

“Yes, they mentioned one: Strepshire. They gave the army food and shelter during the journey,” You recall, confidently, “It’s a fishing town, but the stones are old, the walls around it were praised by the Saxon leaders.”

“If Stithulf retreats to that city…” Hvitserk says, leaving the words hanging.

“He can recuperate his forces, strike back and make us seem weak, not able to fend off the Saxons definitely.” Ubbe finishes, voice grave.

“Who could threaten us, or Dublin?” Hvitserk asks as he bites into a leg of lamb -you do wonder why not ask it before or after filling his mouth with food, but you’ve come to learn to accept him as is-, “Who would threaten Kattegat?”

“Harald-…” Ubbe starts replying, but the Prince shakes his head.

“He wouldn’t plot against Ivar.”

“You remember what I told him, don’t you, brother? That once I die, without a wife or children, Kattegat could be his,” The King supplies without taking his eyes off the map. “I’m getting married, Hvitty. I’m not leaving her or Kattegat to Harald, and he knows it.”

“So if we lose that damn city…”

Ubbe grunts, throwing a bone he picked clean into a nearby firepit, “We cannot have weak flanks, not while Kattegat stretches thin to protect Dublin.”

“Then we take Strepshire before he does.” Ivar states, as if the answer is obvious. Arguments arise almost instantly, and you notice it only seems to set him even more on edge.

He needs to be dissuaded by his brothers who you assume are there because they are people he trusts -even if a few death threats were exchanged in the short time you were a witness- of his intent to depart as soon as possible for Strepshire.

Although you agree with Prince Ubbe that the warriors need their rest after battle and death as, at least you were told, casualties followed their journey to Dublin; you bite your tongue and watch silently as the brothers interact.

There’s something past the desire to raid that drives Ivar, you realize, and the side of you that is still a girl trying to find the truth behind every mystery cannot help to ponder on the what.

Sieghild used to tell you stories about bloodlust, what you assumed to be fantastical tales until the day you stood by the walls of Dublin and saw the Vikings decimate an army and rejoice in the spilling of blood. Although the woman that raised you never accepted such a title, she did tell you of her fights alongside berserkers, and how some of them do not let go of the fury, of the thirst and the desperation, even after the battle has been won.

You allow yourself one last glance at the King, wondering.

But before long your shame reminds you that you cannot be one to judge that man’s desire for blood, when you, without being able to command an army yourself, still have found the way to make who you deemed your enemy bleed for their mistakes.

Your eyes turn to the flames by your seat and you cannot help the feeling of having betrayed your people in exchange for a chance at vengeance against Stithulf and his men. You had a purpose when the flames and the swords drove you out of Eleusis: to return to it with an army and liberate it, drive the Empire off of Attica and hope the Arabs’ looming presence over Constantinople would be enough to have them leave you be.

But after almost two years of pain and hunger and tiredness; the warm hills of your home, the fertile earth and quiet peace seem like a dream more than anything. And you are so angry you do not have the strength to feel tired anymore. You want them all to bleed, and if you have to start with Stithulf, Acar and Leofric then so be it.

Still, shame fills you, your heart reminds you of the path of the Gods and what the leader you promised your people you would become ought to do. And leaving them in the cold of the North or in the heat of the Empire’s fire while you get your revenge feels like failure.

But it will be failure as well to leave Stithulf alive after what he did to your people, to Galla, to Narses.

You are startled out of your thoughts and your eyes away from the flames when a commotion starts in the table where the Vikings were _supposed_ to be discussing strategy. But now the King and Prince Ubbe are face to face, arguing loudly.

“You forget who is King of Kattegat, _brother._ ” King Ivar taunts, teeth bared in a snarl as he regards his own brother. Even past the raw anger and vitriol in his voice, the carry of the accented words through the room speaks of authority.

An authority you don’t think the older Viking is challenging, but rather the decisions made with said authority. Ubbe’s anger is quieter, more restrained than his younger brother’s, but you can sense his fury, his tight hold on his control.

“I haven’t forgotten how you got to the throne, Ivar, don’t worry.”

This only seems to cruelly delight the King, who laughs maliciously and mockingly.

“Is that a threat?”

“No. Unlike you, I am not one to harm my own blood.” The older Prince seethes, and judging by the way he now holds his body he is well aware of the effects his words have on the younger Viking.

You say nothing, but stand up from your place by the fire quietly, going unnoticed by the other prince who watches raptly the interaction between his two brothers. Too late you stop to consider the choice you made, but even when you do, you realize it is a choice you will allow yourself to make.

Publicly defying Ivar, questioning him, is not something you’ll do, not only because you know he would not stand for it, but because you have no interest in doing so. You will, however, try to make it so that he doesn’t try and kill another one of his brothers.

You know about Prince -King now, you think- Sigurd. It wasn’t long after Hvitserk brought it up in front of you that Ivar told you of him and what happened. ‘Telling’ you would be an overstatement, since he seems to share things -especially things that he thinks make him weak, like uncertainty, like longing, like _regret_ \- as if he cannot help but share them, instead of choosing to do so. Like he’s clutching thin sand in his hands and can’t keep all of it guarded and under his control.

But he has told you. He has told you of younger years and arguments that almost led to a tragedy, and the one time it seemed it would. The axe in his brother’s stomach, the blood staining the tunic, the screams of the Northumbrian Princess he was promised to.

According to what Ivar and Hvitserk have told you of the Princess that married Sigurd, it might as well have been her will and her determination what brought the Prince back from his Valhalla, that kept him from resting. Hvitserk told you of how the small and timid Saxon stood guard for weeks on end on her betrothed’s door as he healed; and, in confidence, told you of how there’s whispers she even threatened Ivar when he tried seeing his brother.

You’d love to meet her. Shame her husband and your would-be husband detest each other.

Well, you know it’s not hatred. Jealousy, resentment, discordance, maybe; but not hatred. Ivar not only feels guilt because of the reaction -what made Ubbe almost turn against him- his actions carried, but because, you like to think, he realized what could have happened, what he could have lost, if rage had won.

That’s why, you gather, the Ivar of the stories they tell is quite different from the one you’ve come to know. Gods know you’ve witnessed his rage, his vitriol, his cruelty, and you don’t dare think either have dimmed; but you do believe he uses his head more than his axe ever since what happened with Prince Sigurd.

Maybe that Northumbrian Princess scared the mighty Ivar the Boneless into admitting regret, into accepting he did wrong. You guess you’ll never know.

What you do know is two things. One, Ivar truly loves his brothers but he loves his pride more, and two, you distract him a lot.

So, certain steps take you to Ivar’s side, to the map extended over the worn wood. Seeing his right hand on the table holding his weight, you press your side to his and let your own hand rest lightly on his forearm.

You cannot bring yourself to take his hand, but you hope this is enough.

And it is. He turns to you without you having to utter a single word, and it will never cease to fascinate you how much _softer_ he seems to look when his attention is on you.

You offer a small smile, and return your gaze to the map, “I never saw Strepshire on a map before.”

Hvitserk catches your eye, and you watch as he purses his lips to hide a knowing smile, and in the silence that now reigns in the room, points to a coastal city.

“Did they dock their ships there?” Ivar asks lowly, almost by your ear, and his face still turned to watch the profile of yours, his eyes still taking in your features, your expression. In response, you shake your head.

“It was too close to Dublin, and they didn’t trust their ships to hold a battle at sea,” You reply on the same volume, before lifting your gaze from the map and asking, “Did they move by sea after…after they handed me to you?”

It is Prince Ubbe the one that takes a step closer, his presence alone making you feel much smaller. His eyes stay firmly on yours and there’s a strange kind of fire shining in his pale gaze. It unsettles you, and it is no calculated movement the one you make when you move closer to Ivar. But the King pays no mind, only changing his stance so your arm fits comfortably intertwined with his, so your hand doesn’t have to leave his forearm; as he continues a low conversation with his brother by his other side.

But Ubbe notices, and his eyes narrow for a moment. Still, he doesn’t mention it at all, and only nods his head in acknowledgement of your previous question.

You don’t hear his answer, you only hear the rush of your heartbeat in your ears.

_____

Your careful planting of yet another batch of wildflowers on one of the bigger planters in your room is interrupted by soft knocking on your door.

The thrall girl whose name you keep forgetting to ask walks in with mumbles about someone being at the door. You know it’s not Ivar, since he has never, not once, bothered to ask permission to enter; but you still nod at her and tell her to leave whoever it is and you alone in the room.

Stupid choice? Maybe.

A tall figure walks in, but you cannot see their face until they are close enough.

Prince Ubbe.

“Witch,” He starts, “You and I need to talk.”

You eye him carefully, but regardless stand up and wipe your hands on a cloth nearby. You motion for a chair for the man as you take the one opposite of it. His pale eyes remain on yours with the calculating precision of a predator.

You decide to break the silence yourself, partly because of the growing restlessness in the pit of your stomach and partly because someone somewhere said the best defense a good offense.

“What did you wish to talk about?”

“You,” The Viking says, leaning back in his chair, so reminiscent of his brother you almost smile. “Do you fear me, witch?”

The words of how there’s not a man alive that can make you feel fear are at the tip of your arrogant tongue, but you know better than to lie now. So you just narrow your eyes, and straighten your spine.

“You are not here to ask that, I think.”

“No, because I know what the answer is,” He doesn’t give you time to answer or say anything, asking harshly instead, “What kind of Greek woman speaks of war so surely, or pushes to spill blood just like that?”

You try offering him a smile, tremulous as it is, as you say with a little derision, “Are you saying my people are soft, my Prince? I will try not to take it as an offense.”

He remains stoic, eyeing you with distrust, “I’m saying it is known women are not trained in war or strategy where you come from. They are not taught how an army attacks and moves, or even how to read maps, if I’m not mistaken.”

You decide to give him an honest, serious conversation if he wills it so. An errant thought reminds you that you don’t actually have much of a choice, but you ignore it.

A deep breath, and you concede, “You are not. Mistaken, that is.”

“Then explain yourself.”

“Why should I?” You say before you can stop yourself. A loud gasp leaves your lips when the Prince’s axe finds a home in the table between you.

You scramble to stand, almost knocking the chair backwards as you do so. A few steps back take you away from the Viking. Ubbe keeps cold, dangerous eyes on you as his hand tightens around the hilt of the axe.

“Despite all the differences I may have with Ivar, I will never stand aside and allow someone to stab him in the back,” He growls, a snarl twisting at his lip. You remain silent, standing still. “He is many things, but he is still my brother.”

If he wanted to kill you he would have already, you remind yourself. And although it does little to silence the rapid beating of your heart or the tremble in your hands, it does give your voice enough strength not to waver as you promise,

“I have no intent to harm your brother,” You raise your chin, walking to the planter of wildflowers and lavender and looking out through the window over it. Your back is to the Prince, you know, but again, he would have killed you already if he had come here for this purpose. Your fingers toy with a small trowel you keep by the planter as you continue, “I will deny my own words if you ever share them, but I care for Ivar. I do not want to be his wife, I do not want to be Queen, but…in all my life, I’ve never met a man like him. He has my trust. If I earn his, I will honor it.”

“You are a smart woman.” He states bluntly, but it is not in response to your words, it is as if he is making a point.

With your voice cold, you offer, “Pleasantries do not sit well with me, I’m afraid.”

“I’m saying you know of your influence on him. He _listens_ to you,” His raspy voice is quiet, but the meaning behind his words is a shout inside your head, “And you have no interest in this war. Why stand at Ivar’s side to watch the Saxons die?”

Your answer is honest, even if you doubt he will believe you, “Because I know the kind of men Stithulf and his soldiers are. They are the same kind of men that took my homeland from me. I want them to _hurt_ , I want them to bleed.”

“Priestesses usually-…”

You turn around before he can finish speaking, the small shovel previously in your hand falling unceremoniously to the ground. The sound it makes echoes through the empty room.

The words are leaving your lips before you can think twice about it, your eyes firmly set on his, “Oh, forgive me. Am I to weep for the wounded and pray for peace while my people’s slayers still roam free? That my people, that _Attica_ , wither and die may be the will of the Fates; that their murderers live and prosper alongside their _God_ may be so as well; but I never pretended to be anything but Greek, my Prince, and we do not accept our fates easily or silently.”

It is only after you finish speaking, after you take a breath again, that the weight of your words, of your tone when speaking to the Prince, is settled upon you.

The Viking regards you in silence for a few moments, eyes widened and lips pressed into a line underneath the blonde beard. You hold your breath, wondering if this is the time your inability to keep your mouth shut finally kills you.

But the man instead leans back, a minuscule but noticeable relaxation of his stance as he leans his weight on the table behind him.

His voice is a quiet rumble when he says, “You know my brother is not going to let you return to your _Attica,_ to your home.”

You shrug in response, trying to rid yourself of the tension and fear that keep your spine straight and shoulders locked tight. You cannot give him an answer, for you don’t think there’s anything you can say, honestly.

The man shakes his head grimly in response, but instead of speaking straightens up and shrugs on his cloak.

Hesitating for a moment in the doorway, he says, “You don’t know the kind of man Ivar is,” You don’t say anything, and watch as the Prince’s gaze falls to one of the lavender planters you keep by the door. He lifts rough fingers to touch one of the stubborn flowers, and sighs, “You will have to make a choice soon, witch. I know that my brother does not see a prisoner when he looks at you, and I am certain you don’t see a captor when you look at him.”

You stop him with a call of his name, raising your chin and meeting his gaze, “What makes you think that?”

He only chuckles in response, leaning his upper body closer to you. His stark blue eyes pierce your own gaze, and the Viking offers a side smile.

“You chose not to lie to him. A prisoner would do whatever it takes to escape.”

He bows his head in goodbye, and leaves you standing alone in a cold room filled with uncertainties and dread.


	20. Chapter 20

_Whatever it takes to escape. Whatever it takes._

You mull over Ubbe’s words as you wait for the thralls to come fetch you, to come wash and dress you, to come drag you down to make you Ivar’s wife.

The soft knock on your door is all the warning you have, before the meek girls slip through the door. You are familiar with them, not only because they’ve been the ones to care for you ever since you were given a place to call your own in this realm of cold, but because since you woke up this morning they’ve been coming and going, preparing your bath and tending to your hair, dutifully flocking around you in a manner you don’t have the heart to tell them is annoying.

Behind them, Freydis walks in, and you meet her gaze with wide eyes.

_When the King lowers his guard and loosens what you call chains…_

She only smiles calmly at you, greeting you with a slow blink and careful hands crossed over her stomach. The perfect picture of a maiden, and it unsettles you.

“Freydis.” You breathe out, and she bows her head with a murmur of your name in return. Her eyes trace your room, stopping on the planters and the plants you’ve managed to make blossom under your care.

She distracts you with simple topics of conversation while the thralls take care of your skin, of your clothes, of your hair. You feel her blue eyes settle with calculating interest as she watches you stop the girls and refuse to let them braid your hair, but says nothing.

They fasten the elegant red dress -the King’s choice, apparently- on you, and after quickly brushing your hair so it falls loosely down your back, one of the thralls moves to leave the room to fetch something, but Freydis’ voice stops her.

“I’ve got it.”

You turn around and find the blonde holding a delicate wreath of wildflowers in her hands, offering it to you. You blink and the breath leaves your lips as if a giant weight was dropped on your chest.

“W-What is that?”

“A wedding crown.”

You shake your head, stepping back.

“N-No, that’s…that’s…” Your panicked breaths quicken, your eyes find Freydis’ with what you are sure is a plea written in them.

“It means something to you, doesn’t it?”

You laugh bitterly to yourself, lifting your gaze to the wooden ceiling and wondering why you are still surprised Fate manages to be cruel to you.

_The Hiereia brushes your hair back with gentle fingers, her bracelets clanking against each other and making crude music against your ears._

_As she starts weaving your hair to hold the flower crown, you look into the mirror. For a moment you see a flash of red veiling your features, but when you blink it is gone._

_You can remember the first time they put such a crown on you, your mother’s soft touch guiding the girl of barely six years into her first sacrifice._

_“You feel Despoina’s touch upon you, don’t you?” Mother asked, a smile in her voice you can remember even today, even ten years later._

_“I feel…” You couldn’t find the words, and you can’t now either. “I don’t know, mother.”_

_“It is her hand reaching for yours,” The Hiereia explains quietly, without any prompting, as if she too can glimpse into a past long gone. And the dried pomegranate branches make rustling sounds on your ears as she fixes the crown. “You wear the crown of flowers worn by the maiden she once was, and after tonight you bear blood to honor the crown of death and iron Lord Hades placed upon her head.”_

_The weight of memories, of grief, of nostalgia, burdens you more than it should. The woman at your back notices, and puts heavy hands on your shoulders and her mouth by your ear._

_“Chosen by Persephone,” Hearing that name still makes a thrill run down your spine, and the title that she invokes hardens your heart but makes your soul sing. “You have nothing to fear.”_

_You didn’t notice your eyes lowering to your hands, but the Hiereia’s soft touch under your chin, making you lift your gaze to the mirror again, forces you to face the crown they have placed on your head and the thirst for something other than flowers that comes with it._

You look down at yourself, at the hands you are wringing together, and force your lungs to take a deep breath. You are tired of panic, you are tired of wanting to run knowing you can’t, you are tired of struggling.

You are _tired_ , still far from defeated, but tired.

Closing your eyes, you try to center yourself, and _trust_. Trust in your mother, in her wisdom and in her protection, trust she had a reason for guiding you to Ivar’s side. Trust in her Gods, the Gods that she asked to protect and guide you even if you didn’t worship them, trust their hand in taking you here means there’s a purpose for you at Ivar’s side. Trust in your Gods, trust the deities you dedicated your life to wouldn’t fate it that you are defeated, trust Persephone, trust that she wouldn’t forget you when you haven’t forgotten her.

Trust Ivar, trust he can be a good husband, trust he will not try and silence you like many have before, trust he will never ask that you lower your gaze.

Trust _yourself_. Trust that all you survived means you can survive this, trust that you can and will fight for what you are owed, trust that no binds and certainly no _men_ can keep you from the victories you are owed.

You take it from Freydis’ hands, and put the crown on your head yourself, raising your chin and straightening your back.

The view outside the small window shows you the kingdom you are to call our own now, but beyond it the horizon lays, the place where the skies meet the sea, and you allow yourself to feel at ease as you are escorted by Freydis to wherever it is she will take you.

____

A part of you that doesn’t hold a pit of dread growing in your chest, would have no qualms in saying the opening where they arranged for the wedding to take place is beautiful. Foreign, intimidating, _Viking_ , but beautiful.

The sky has started to darken, and there’s carefully placed torches granting light to the ample circle where the people there to witness the union and the Völva stand.

They don’t need to tell you or guide you, you know you are supposed to walk towards the man you are supposed to marry, who stands before the witch in formal but still imposing clothes.

Leave it to him to get married in the closest thing possible to armor.

You bite down a manic smile at your own observation, and with a deep breath and a straightening of your back, you move to stand in front of him, with the officiant to your side.

A young girl is walked to the woman, and with no hesitation she signals for the women that assist her to tie the girl to a pillar behind her, a pillar you just now notice holds a container underneath, like the vessels you used back home.

The girl doesn’t squirm, doesn’t shake, doesn’t cry. She looks at Ivar, looks at you, and closes her eyes.

She does scream when she dies, when the Völva pierces her skin with the odd-looking blade, but her pain, you hope, is short-lived, and the blood of the sacrifice is collected and, you assume, that part of the ritual is over, judging by the dimming of the beat of the drums somewhere at your back.

The witch turns back towards you, dress proudly stained with blood, and says some words about Freyja and Frigg, about Odin and Fenrir, about what we are all here for: a binding before the Gods themselves, of a woman and man.

Without hesitation, and frankly startling you a bit, the woman reaches up and grabs Ivar’s face between her hands, looking into his eyes.

“Do you swear before the Gods you want to marry this woman?”

Ivar’s eyes stay on yours, burning like Greek Fire.

“I swear.”

The woman grabs your face between her rough hands, forces your eyes to meet hers,

“Do you swear before the Gods you want to marry this man?”

Your lips have breathed an answer before your mind can remember the words you should want to say.

“I swear, before your Gods and mine.”

She smiles then, pleased and warm, and releases you. You waver in the place where you stand, and a tremor makes its way past your parted lips.

This just might be the choice, the title, the name, that breaks you; you think to yourself. Everything would be easier if he could make you hate him, if he could make you see only the man that captured you and forced you to be at his side. Everything would be easier if you hadn’t realized this isn’t a captor you will grow to resent, if your foolish heart couldn’t latch on to the glimpses of the man you met in Aneridge that you still see in Ivar.

Because you wish you could tell yourself the captivating and enticing man you met in that old Saxon city was a mirage, a deceit by the cunning King of Kattegat. You wish, for it would make everything easier.

It would make marrying him only the blindly followed orders of an arrangement your mother made, and not a choice you could see yourself making. It would make marrying him in the eyes of the Gods what makes you swear loyalty to him and trusting in him, and not your loyalty and trust what makes you swear to be his wife before the Gods.

You are to be his wife. You are his wife.

In the eyes of his people, in the eyes of his Gods, in the eyes of yours. In his eyes.

Just as in your eyes, he is your husband.

You meet the eyes of the man before you, and a tremulous smile starts to curve at your lips. It is a bit broken, a bit mad; but there’s rush of freedom in finding yourself with no binds in that brief instant where you say _yes._

You accept the title, not because Sieghild made the arrangement, not because Ivar wanted you to, not because ten thousand Greeks laid their hands over their hearts and kneeled, not because your legacy asked you to.

Because you wanted to.

Ivar takes his hand on yours and puts a bloodied ring the Völva hands him on your fourth finger. The woman hums a pleased sound, and you watch as she dips a small bouquet of branches into the sacrifice’s blood.

With a precise movement of her arm she specks Ivar’s face with the blood, and his eyes close. When she turns to you, she hesitates and considers you for a moment.

You meet her eyes, a new kind of fear in your stomach, and the witch raises her hand over your head.

The drops of blood fall on the flower crown on your head, and she smiles, she smiles like she knows a secret you don’t, she smiles like she knows every secret you’ve kept.

Another sharp movement of her wrist and your face is speckled in blood as well, but you feel the weight of those few drops on the crown on your head as if they were as heavy as iron.

“Before the Gods you are now married.”

The people clap and cheer, the drums beat louder and so does your heart.

Your husband’s eyes open and meet yours, and you cannot hear anything else.

You will tell yourself later that it was the pressure of the eyes of so many of the people of Kattegat on you, you will tell yourself later that it was the knowledge of what a bride’s duty is, you will tell yourself later whatever it is that can make the burden lighter.

But now you just stand on the balls of your feet, close your eyes and sink into the kiss Ivar breathes over your lips. You let him steal the breath from your lungs as his lips move tentatively against your own, and the steadiness from your hand as you raise it and let it cup his jaw and guide his mouth to press harder into yours.

You will tell yourself later that his hand is rough and forceful as he grips at the back of your head, you will tell yourself later you do not feel tenderness when his fingers run through the tresses of your hair as his hand moves to your lower back.

But now you just enjoy the touch of his lips on yours, the feeling of thrill that goes all the way down your spine, the heat that pools low in your stomach.

And no crown, no title, no kingdom, could make you feel as powerful as you do when you part from the kiss and have Ivar chase the touch of your lips, swaying forward, as if entranced.

Your eyes follow the red streak your hand now adorned with a ring leaves on his cheek and jaw, a path downwards to leave your hand on his chest, the delicate ring still shining with the red of the blood.

You ride a chariot -his chariot- all the way back to the main hall, reminded starkly of your own people’s traditions and realizing once again the Fates truly toy with us all.

Before long, the doors are opened by smiling warriors, and a feast awaits. You cannot take your eyes off the two identical thrones that await you where there used to be one.

Ivar guides you to them, and turning to his -yours too now, you suppose- people, and with his hand still holding onto yours, he turns his head to look at you, what you could swear is pride and satisfaction written all over his expression and his posture as he seems to stand taller, before raising his voice and announcing to the crowded room, to the kingdom now laid before you,

“Everyone! My wife, and Queen of Kattegat!”

_When you walk outside of the tent aided by Galla’s firm hands, you find that the elders, the families, the soldiers and farmers, they all greet you with warm eyes, with kind and relieved smiles._

_It feels like home and yet all there is around you is unfamiliar woods, it feels like peace even if your home burns at your backs, it feels_

_“Everyone’s been waiting to see you,” Galla whispers with the smile that hasn’t left her voice or her face since you awoke, weeks into your escape from Eleusis’ flames. “You know, they are going to need a leader, someone that can be their guide, someone they can love and admire.”_

_“Galla, wh-…”_

_“Someone that follows our Gods, someone that is willing to bleed and die for us, someone that when Attica is ours again rules our home.” She says, and when you turn to face her, she presses her forehead to yours, a gesture of affection and trust since you were but children._

_Galla pulls back, black eyes looking into your own and even if the weariness of weeks on the road, of nights spent in the woods as sentinel, set on her dark skin like an unshakeable mark of pain and loss; when she smiles you cannot help but return the gesture, tremulous as yours is._

_The Carthaginian straightens, and with a certain and proud movement, brings her fist to her heart before bending the knee. You accept her pledge, and all those that follow as the people surrounding you repeat the gesture._

_“Anassa of Attica. May the Gods bless and guide you.”_

_You look at all those expectant faces, you face all your failures and your victories, you bear the burden your legacy earned you. And you cannot help but think if your body wasn’t burnt and broken you would have run away by now._

The Vikings cheer and raise their voices and their cups, and you find yourself smiling in thanks and in reflection of what seems to be genuine celebration.

You once again sit at Ivar’s side, this time on a throne of your own, and this time you don’t let go of his hand.

____

The feast lives on around you, loud and cheerful and chaotic, and you toy with the still-bloodied ring that now adorns your left hand, trying to make out the subtle design underneath the blood.

“You’ve been staring at it for a long time,” Ivar interrupts, and you lift your head to find him looking at you with his head cocked to the side, “Do you not exchange rings in Greece?”

Your right hand clasps at the place where you always keep your mother’s old pendant hanging from your neck, before dropping it once you realize tonight you wear some fancy jewels you don’t care much for. When Ivar’s eyes follow the movement of your hand before lifting to meet your own, you realize he may know without you telling him what it means to be given a piece of jewelry at your wedding day.

“No, it is not our custom. I…Sieghild never told me, she never…she never talked about these things.”

“And what did you make of it?”

_You wear the crown of flowers worn by the maiden she once was, and after tonight you bear blood to honor the crown of blood and iron Lord Hades placed upon her head._

“It was all…familiar,” You reply honestly, clearing your throat to dispel the hoarseness that plagued it as you spoke past the memories and the stories they try to tell you. “They told me you ordered for my dress to be red.”

“I like red,” Ivar replies, shrugging one shoulder, before bowing his head to you, “And you look good in it.”

“It is a bride’s color to my people,” You reply with a rueful smile, before chuckling to yourself, “The Gods entertain themselves with this, you know.”

Ivar only smiles, tranquil and honest, but doesn’t argue, and returns his gaze ahead.

Whatever it is you are about to say is interrupted by the approaching figure. You turn your head and straighten in the throne as Freydis bows before the two of you.

You only watch with wide eyes, and she raises her head and meets Ivar’s eyes.

“My King,” She smiles calmly, innocently, “Congratulations on your marriage. May the Gods bless and reward you.”

You watch Ivar’s profile, and only because you are looking for the reaction it is that you notice the barely-there change in his posture, the subtle part of his lips, the questions in his pale gaze.

_Freydis manic eyes on yours, her hand reaching for yours but it feels like it grasps at your throat, telling you those that endure pain are chosen of the Gods themselves._

_Ivar sets new chains upon you and with the certainty of madness whispers that you are the reward for a lifetime of pain._

The realization of who it was that told Ivar those things, that put those ideas in his head, it strikes you and leaves you watching the interaction with wide eyes.

You wonder, like the prideful and arrogant woman the Gods made out of you, what exactly is the story neither of them has told you. You wonder, like the jealous and foolish girl you’ll never admit to being, why it is they haven’t.

Unaware to your thoughts -or pretending to be-, Freydis turns to you and smiles again, but it is truer, freer, hungrier. You don’t know if you should allow yourself to smile back.

But you shake yourself out of those thoughts, telling yourself you have no reason to distrust her. Right?

“I was hoping to steal the Queen from your side, only for a few moments.” The blonde continues, meek and unsettlingly calm.

Ivar considers her with a side smile that says he doesn’t particularly like this game she tries to play, but after exchanging a look with you, he signals with his hand in permission.

You stand from the throne and walk to Freydis’ side with careful steps. Ivar stops you before you can get too far, his hand trapping yours and keeping you close to the throne.

You turn around with an easy smile playing at your lips, because…Gods, you are a fool.

“Wife.”

_Priestess._

“Husband.”

_Viking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, hope you liked it! I have a lot a lot of feelings about Norse and Ancient/Byzantine Greek traditions when it comes to weddings. The red is a true thing, and funnily enough the Ancient Greeks had a tradition of having the groom drive a chariot around the home he was gonna live in with his wife (or smth like that, I’ve been slowly bled for all I’m worth in these damn finals so my value as a source is a little off atm), and a lot of lil details like that that if I included would have made thisa 10k monstrosity that no one wnated to read lol


	21. Chapter 21

“I haven’t gotten a chance to congratulate you in person.” Freydis tells you as you approach a smiling Valdís and a few other women from the apothecary.

You offer a side smile, “You could have earlier,” You point out, meaning her previous approach to the throne. “But you were too busy reminding Ivar of what rewards pain brings, so I understand.

She stops on her tracks, and you turn around with a raised eyebrow. She doesn’t deny it, you will grant her that.

For once, being the one with the knowledge, being the one certain and with solid ground under their feet; it feels like a small victory, you won’t lie.

“Don’t keep secrets from me, Freydis.” You warn her.

“Witch!” Valdís calls you over the ruckus of the ongoing feast, before ducking out of the way of an elder woman’s hit. The shieldmaiden smirks, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I meant _my Queen_.”

You shake your head with a laugh, and when you approach the shieldmaiden stands. She embraces you before you can react, and how you almost don’t reach her chin makes you feel once again like you are in a land of giants.

“Congratulations, may the Gods bless you both,” She whispers, honest and caring and utterly motherly in that brash way of hers. “For the woman you are, witch, I don’t think there could be a better man. Nor a better woman for the man he is.”

“You seem sure.”

Valdís shrugs, as if the answer is simple, obvious to all.

“He’d step over a less prideful woman, but a dumber one would get killed before long,” She whispers, face close to yours and eyes knowing as she smirks, “You’d shake off the fool that tried silencing you, but would scorn the one that didn’t challenge you.”

You remember when Sieghild heard of your betrothal to Narses, how she told you to fight, to fight the men in Greece, to fight the notions they had of you, to fight Narses; and you how retorted he was a good man that loved you, and that you wouldn’t fight him. Your mother’s words from that day echo in your head, certain and prophetic, _you wouldn’t give your love without a fight._

You only look at Valdís with a slowly growing smile on your face, before questioning, “You speak so surely, yet I’m the arrogant little witch?”

“Well, you _are_ small.”

She laughs at your affronted expression, and with an arm over your shoulders guides you to the table where the other women you’ve come to know and care for sit, who congratulate you and bow their heads in greeting. Before long the conversation between the women continues on other topics, and you allow yourself to drink and laugh and forget you are supposed to feel chained.

When you return to Ivar’s side, you find his eyes trained somewhere behind you, and even a blind woman would know his gaze -and his thoughts- linger on the stranger that embraced you.

“Who was that?”

You sit at his side and thank a thrall that hands you a goblet of mead with a smile, before answering, “Valdís, a shieldmaiden. A…a friend.”

“I don’t recognize her.”

“But you do recognize Freydis.” You blurt out before you can trap the words behind your lips, and Ivar turns his eyes to you.

“The slave.” He states, but it is a question. You nod, and adjust in your seat, trying to rid yourself of the nervous energy.

“She’s beautiful, surely not easy to forget. You’ve seen her with me before, yet you never told me you knew her,” You insist, careful eyes watching over the ongoing feast. When Ivar stays silent, you turn your gaze to him and find him smiling at you, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

From his throne, Ivar leans towards you, his hand moving your hair out of the way and his mouth almost by your ear as he whispers,

“If I didn’t know better, _wife_ , I’d think you are jealous.”

“But you do know better.” You bite out and Gods, even a deaf man would hear the truth behind your words.

____

You are escorted in a truly bizarre fashion to your now shared room with Ivar, but you write it off to being some Norse tradition you couldn’t for the life of you understand, and try only not to flinch when the door to the rooms closes behind the last of the warriors, leaving you alone with your husband.

For the first time since you arrived in this kingdom of cold and death, you allow yourself to look at the bed in the King’s rooms.

It looks warmer than yours, spacious and surrounded in dark wood posters, with a leather panel on top. _Are those chains hanging over it?_

“Wife.” Ivar calls, taking your eyes off the bed and stalling the panic that started to set in your heart. You are still wondering what the chains are for, though.

You turn to him, joining your hands in front of you so you can make them stop shaking. He only signals for you to approach him where he stands, and you hesitate for a moment before you do so, taking him in.

He is a handsome man, and ever since Aneridge, much to your chagrin, you have known you want him. Even after he has imprisoned you, it would be a lie if you said you didn’t wonder what it would take to have the Viking underneath you, or the different ways you could make his proud façade crumble. If only, at times, in fantasies when you can be the one in power, or in rarer ones when you imagined what he could do to try and make you surrender to him.

Gods, infuriating and terrifying a man as he proves to be, you want him, like you have wanted no other.

Still, your father taught you the first sign of a people enslaved and defeated is when they go willingly to their enemies’ temples, to their enemies’ beds. You refuse to admit that you willingly lay with the man that took you captive, that forced you to be his wife.

When you walk in shaky legs until you stand before him, he says nothing, but a hand on your shoulder makes you turn your back to him.

It is with awkward gentleness that he moves your hair to the side. Not the tenderness of a cruel man failing at pretending, no; but rather the uncertain one of a man that knows nothing but war.

His fingers start making quick work of the laces at the back of your dress, and hoping you can make him ignore the tremble of your breath at his touch, the goosebumps on your skin at the ghost of a caress that goes down your spine; you ask,

“W-What do you Vikings do?” He hums in question, and you explain yourself, “For…for a bedding ceremony, or whatever it is.”

“We just went through it.”

“Your people have a reputation. Forgive me for thinking the loosening of a dress seems…tame.”

Ivar chuckles at your words, lowering his head and closing his eyes for a moment. Few times you’ve been able to make him laugh, and you’ve counted and cherished each one, but you do realize there’s something different about this time.

He’s tense, uncomfortable. Uncertain.

“Will you make me lay with you?” You ask, startling yourself at the brashness. Ivar shakes his head, a guarded coldness taking over his expression as he steps away from you. Still, against your every instinct, you push on, “You surely don’t have any qualms about forcing yourself upon me.

The way he says your name, a warning and a threat all in one, it makes your breath falter. You’ve never heard your name on his lips like that, like the warning sound a cornered beast makes before striking.

But you will sooner die than let a man make you fear him. So, you press,

“You abducted me and forced me to become your wife, you’ve shown you care not for my freedom to make a choice. Your honor or your desire to have me want you to aren’t stopping you.

An honest and shame-filled part of you knows you are only being like this because you hate being reminded of how close to surrender you’ve allowed to come. Wanting the man that took you captive, softening your heart for the King that forced you to be his wife, letting yourself feel something for the monster that took you from your people and home…you have no choice left but to remind him -and yourself- that you are no willing wife, no enamoured maiden. 

“I can’t.”

You lift your eyebrows, the simple words stealing all words from your head.

“What do y-…?”

“Useless legs and useless cock,” He interrupts, tone disdainful as he gestures to his own body, “Boneless. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the rumors.”

You shake your head mutely, for it is true no one has spoken of them to you.

He shrugs, the movement forced and unnatural.

“Well, it does not matter, now you know,” Oh, but it matters quite a lot, you gather. Still, you will say nothing of it, partly because you truly don’t know what you are supposed to say. Ivar doesn’t seem to want any words either, for he gestures towards you, “It is late and you are tired, go change.”

Who would have thought your wedding night would be the one night you actually obey him. You slip past him quietly until you are behind one of the partitions, and hear the telltale sounds of him settling in a seat by the hearth at the side of the bed as you start untangling your hair from the crown of flowers.

Shaking fingers trace over the dying and bloodied petals, and the reminder that, through a cruel twist of Fate, your Gods were here with you today; it calms you, it comforts you. It makes a small and easily quietened part of you regret the outburst.

You shrug off the red dress and leave it carefully folded for the thralls to pick up tomorrow, and put on the thin nightgown that will do nothing to protect you from Kattegat’s cold.

Your return to the King and find him sitting, with his hand by his mouth clearly thinking about something. When he sees you, he gestures with his hand to the bed.

“You can go ahead and sleep,” He instructs, and you nod your head and, with heavy limbs, move to the bed. But he stops you before you can move far with a call of your name, “If you dare try to divorce me on grounds of me not sleeping with you, I-…don’t.”

“Could I?”

“I’ll kill you if you ever try.” He promises, and it is a threat not for a second you believe to be a lie.

You accept his words with a curt nod, and realize you hadn’t actually thought of that. Being able to divorce him, not him killing you, of course.

That should have been your first thought, the rope thrown over the side of the boat that could help you climb to freedom. But you didn’t think of that, you didn’t think that at all, and it frightens you, the possibility of not seeing opportunities to escape for something as fickle as…

Never mind that. You close your eyes and, after considering your next words carefully, you insist,

“You know you don’t need a cock to sleep with a woman.”

“I will not lay with another woman that cannot stand to even touch me,” He states without hesitation, and though a part of you is dying to ask the story behind the words he speaks, you bite your tongue. “That is not what I want.”

“What is it you want, then?” You ask, turning around. And for the first time you do not demand to know the answer, you don’t intertwine accusations with the question. Your eyes search his and your voice hushes, “What did you marry me for? What do you want from me, Ivar?”

“I wanted to keep you at my side, make you my wife.”

But you shake your head stepping closer before you realize what you are doing. Your voice is quiet, soft, _true_ , as you ask,

“Tell me, please. What do you want from me?”

His jaw clenches, and you notice his hands stay stiffly grasping at the armrest of his chair. His eyes search yours and the vulnerability in them shatters at something within you.

“Kiss me.” He whispers. A dare, a command, a plea.

It is not an answer to your question. And yet, Gods, is as honest an answer as you could ever get.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a shaky exhale, but you still step forward, closer, with certain steps.

Ivar stays still, as still as a marble statue and you reminisce of those first days in Aneridge, and how you thought you could shatter him with but a flick of your wrist.

But the realization that he could do the same to you settles within you like a rock on your stomach. No wrath, no fury, no cruelty, no _King_ may have been able to make you cave, but…the vulnerability in his expression, the longing in his voice, the feeling of being lost written in his eyes, _Ivar_ ; makes your walls crumble and your heart stutter its beat.

You search his eyes and with one last shaky breath you lean down and press your lips to his.

He stiffens under your touch even if it wasn’t unexpected, he lets you lead his mouth moving against yours even if today he kissed you in front of a whole kingdom.

And you think of how many times you wanted to be the one to kiss him. There’s no use for lying, not anymore, not to yourself.

You think of Aneridge, and the foreign man you met when you lived in that fantasy where neither of you had names or lives outside of the two of you; and you know that if you had caved, if you had felt his kiss, you would have followed that man to the end of the world.

You think of those weeks of living in a limbo, where you could pretend there was no escape and yet lived without the invisible binds that today he set upon you; and you know it was only pride and shame what kept you from admitting you felt unburdened.

You think of the time since the certainty of this being Fate has set upon you, of what laid beyond the endless fight against the titles he wanted you to accept; and you know even if it lacerates at your heart and defies your very nature, you have felt safe, _free_.

Ivar chases after your lips when you pull away, tilting his head as if unwilling to part from your kiss. His eyes open and meet yours, and you lean closer once again, and kiss him again.

Not because he made you, not because anyone made you, because you choose to.

And with your choice comes a truth. What was it the witch said? It is easy to choose, it is not easy to live with what the choice we made says about us.

When you part a second time, your forehead rests against his and your breaths are one for a few moments.

And with your voice a hoarse whisper, you confess,

“If you had asked, I would have said yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…thoughts? Hope you liked this, really hope I don’t dissapoint with my writing that drags on and on.
> 
> Btw, ‘bedding’ traditions in Viking Age Scandinavia, as far as I could find, centered around the couple being escorted to their rooms/bed. Hence, the ‘we just went through it’ dialogue line. There’s so many Viking wedding things (and almost as many Ancient/Byzantine Greek wedding things) that I wish I could have included, but alas, I already ramble a lot with my writing, I don’t wanna bore you.


	22. Chapter 22

You lay on the bed alone, covered in warm furs and unable to get your eyes off the chains that dangle over your head.

Why on earth are there chains hanging over the bed?

You shake those thoughts off, and turn on your side and, burrowed under the furs and trying to find warmth, you close your eyes and let yourself relax into sleep.

Gods, this land is cold. That is your first thought as you wake after what seems like a blink of your eyes but the now quiet main hall merely a couple of walls away says were at least a couple of hours.

Before letting your thoughts wander into the horrifying realization that it isn’t even winter yet and you feel like setting yourself on fire again might as well be an alternative to consider, you cautiously turn around and face the other side of the bed.

Empty.

With a frown, you sit up -and immediately regret it as the furs slip from your shoulders-, looking around the room.

“Ivar?” Once your eyes adjust to the dimmed fires around the room, you find him sitting in that same chair that he was in when you retired for bed. “Ivar, why didn’t you come to bed?”

In an almost immediate reaction to your words, Ivar shakes his head and frowns, what is sure to be a mix of disgust and anger written in his features.

“Don’t-…” He stops himself, not looking at you and choosing to refill his cup with mead as he asks instead, “What you said before. That you would have said yes.”

“What of it?”

He turns to look at you, to meet your eyes, for the first time since you woke up. You cannot make out much of him in the dim light, but through his voice alone you’d know he is serious, uncertain.

“What did you mean?”

Swallowing past a dry throat, you offer the truth,

“If you had asked me to come with you when you were to leave Aneridge, I would have said yes. I would have asked for you to guarantee the Greeks’ safety, but…I would have said yes,” You take a deep breath, and rush to continue even if he is only passively looking at you, not intending to interrupt or speak it seems, “When you brought me here at first, before anyone knew you planned on making me your wife, if you had let me be free and asked me to stay in Kattegat…I would have said yes. Even after everything, if you had asked me to be your wife, I-…

Your words die in a choked intake of breath, and you shake your head.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. You didn’t ask. You didn’t give me a choice.”

It doesn’t matter what the Völva said, because even if you now know that making a choice is, like she said, easy, and what is hard is facing what that choice we made says about us; none of it makes any difference now.

Because you didn’t make any choices, you didn’t choose anything. He didn’t let you.

Ivar breathes deeply, and you are startled to see his gaze fall from yours, his eyes that lower and focus on some far away spot on the ground before him.

But before long his nose curls in anger, his hand raises and he lifts a finger to you.

“This isn’t my fault, it’s yours.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I wanted you with me, and that Christian gave you up, I had every right to bring you here as a slave,” His hand drops to the armrest of the chair again, where he curls it into a fist. “But you-…you arrogant, insufferable woman, you hated me, you looked at me like-…”

“Did you think I’d thank you, Ivar?”

“I didn’t think you’d hate me,” He offers honestly, and the breath leaving your lungs in a stutter breath is all the answer you can give to the unevenness in his voice, to the vulnerability that shines in his eyes. “If I made you a free woman, I knew you’d run away.

For once you actually have no words, no idea on what to say. A part of you is still stubbornly and pridefully clinging to the outrageous idea that all of this is somehow _your fault_.

“But if I didn’t free you, you’d…what was it you said? You could never look at my with anything other than hate as long as I had you prisoner?” He turns his head to the side as his face twitches in anger. You don’t fail to notice even in his accented and foreign voice he still speaks differently, and a glance at the horn of mead still in his hand gives you an answer. You would have thought he’d be more explosive, not as…sulking. He returns his eyes to you, and insists, “It is your fault. If you hadn’t been so insufferable, I wouldn’t have had to make you my wife.”

“You chose that.” You remind him quietly.

“No, you made me!” He snaps, standing up with more difficulty than usual. He takes measured but wobbly steps towards you, but you hold your ground and meet his furious gaze. “I wanted you, but you weren’t you if I had you chained; and you would have left if I let you be free.”

“So you made me your wife.”

“You didn’t leave me any choice!” He snarls, and sits -falls- on the bed. He discards the crutch on the floor and with his free hand he reaches up and grabs at the back of your neck, but it is with surprising gentleness that he does. You could swear his eyes travel down to your lips as he whispers your name, making a thrill go down your spine. With the same hoarseness in his voice, he continues, “You forget you’ve chained me as much as you say I’ve chained you.”

Your eyes search his, and all you can offer him is a whisper, “What are we to do now, then?”

It seems he considers your question, but either doesn’t find an answer or isn’t willing to share it with you, for he lets go of you and with a grunt lets himself collapse on the bed on his back.

You carefully return to your previous position lying down on your side, and let time go by with you eyes slowly growing more and more heavy as the fire crackling and Ivar’s breathing lull you to safety.

Before you let yourself sleep, you whisper his name. A hum is his only answer, but at least you know he is still awake.

“I thought…you said you believed the Gods would reward you. That they fated me to be your wife.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t look at you.

“The Gods are not cruel. They wouldn’t reward me with a wife that can’t love me.”

Because you are nothing if not foolish and mad and hopeful, you whisper,

“You don’t believe I could love you?”

Ivar only huffs a bitter chuckle, and the defeat in the way he shrugs makes dread churn at your stomach.

“Who could?”

He settles against the pillow and closes his eyes once again, still on the armor-looking clothes from today, still with the braces -that you know by now _are_ painful, not only looking the part- still on his legs.

But he seems to be willing to sleep that way, and you are not willing to risk your head being cut off for trying to get those contraptions off when he has snapped in anger for you merely looking at them.

So, you turn to lay back on your stomach, hugging the pillow underneath you, and you ask in a whisper,

“What is your Gods’ reward, then?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, and you can understand his answer because your foolish eyes are intent on his lips, and can read the words that leave them so quietly you can barely hear them,

“It’s still you.”

____

You wake when stray rays of sunlight start peeking into the room, and though you frown at whatever it is that woke you up, you soon realize it is the sound of metal hitting the ground, dull little thuds as Ivar takes off the braces in his legs.

He moves back the furs on the side he was occupying when you last fell asleep, and you groan at the frigid air that enters the warm cocoon you had for yourself under the covers.

You only groan, and hold on tight to the furs over your shoulders, sending him a glare when he turns to look at you in question as to why he can’t freely move the covers.

“I. Am. Cold.” You bite out, and even though you see the tiredness in his expression, more than one kind of exhaustion making not only his face but his whole body be coiled with a strange tension; Ivar smiles.

Faintly, almost against his own will, in a manner someone that didn’t know him would say is soft, gentle.

You offer a small smile in return, because your own lips betray you.

You notice he’s chewing on something as he settles on the bed, and with a strange warmth taking a hold of you it is that you realize is the piece of willow bark you left on his chest when -stubbornly, infuriatingly- he chose to sulk over the covers and with those painful contraptions still on his legs instead of going to sleep normally.

A foolish, stupid, part of you wants to know what he thinks, what his thoughts were when he woke up and found the same remedy for the pain you offered him once in Aneridge, when you were just a Priestess, and he was just this strange and fascinating Viking you would have followed to the end of the world, if only the two of you could find a way to remain just a Priestess and just a Viking.

But you don’t listen to that part of you, you don’t voice any questions. You just hum an agreement when Ivar murmurs that it is late -early- and you should continue sleeping.

When you wake up next, he is awake but still on his back, looking up at the ceiling. You turn and do the same, only to be faced once again with the chains that hang over his side of the bed.

You have half a mind to ask him what they are for, but the faint sounds of Kattegat waking up, of the world demanding you return your feet to the ground, make you realize what happened last night, yesterday as a whole.

You are married. You are now Queen of Kattegat.

A part of you mourns for a wedding that couldn’t be anymore, a wedding of happiness and free will and _love_ ; mourns for the life that could have been, mourns for the childish part of you that always thought marrying the one you want means the fight is over.

“We reached what was supposed to be the end, didn’t we?” You ask, hands folded over your stomach and looking up at the ceiling. He hums an affirmation, and you sigh, “Doesn’t feel like it, does it?”

“We can’t exactly start over, _wife_.”

You shake your head, and with the same amount of planning that took running towards that stream and jumping over it, with the same impulsivity and foolishness; you sit up and, folding your legs underneath you, you turn to him.

“I want to offer an arrangement.”

Ivar only considers you in silence before closing his eyes with a sigh, “You think you have the answers to everything, don’t you?”

You ignore his taunt, choosing instead to go ahead with your explanation.

“I made a promise. Not only to you, I made a promise before that,” He knows you mean your promise to have Stithulf die before you allow yourself to rest, you see it shining in his pale eyes. He says nothing, gives away nothing, yet you still continue, “That promise isn’t fulfilled. While he still lives, I have reasons to stay here.”

Ivar considers you in silence, a barely-there narrowing of his eyes the only tell before he asks,

“And when we kill him?”

Even when Stithulf is defeated, you know you’ll still have reasons to wish to stay. You know, but you cannot say it. You know the choices you would have made, but those choices don’t matter -and they don’t say anything about you, you tell yourself- for you didn’t make them.

What matters is the choice you would make once you are able to. Once Stithulf paid with his blood for the Greek blood he spilled, once your promises are fulfilled, you will, like Prince Ubbe said, have to make a choice.

You don’t know what the choice will be, because you don’t know who you’ll be once the Christian is dead at your feet, you don’t know how long it will be, how foolish and soft you’ll have allowed yourself to become, or how relentless on your pursuit of Attica you’ll be. Bu you need to know you’ll be able to make that choice.

That way, you’ll allow yourself to feel free here and now, you’ll allow yourself to be -if only for the time while the Saxon is hunted down and killed- as you were in Aneridge. Like you allowed yourself to pretend there was not a world past the door of that hut, you’ll allow yourself to pretend there’s not one past the walls of Kattegat.

They say power is not the same thing to everyone, and you find yourself agreeing. You feel powerful when you are free, when you can choose, when you have no binds. And you know, because you’ve come to know him in these past months, that Ivar feels powerful when he is control, in control over the kingdom and its wars, over himself, over what people say and think of him, controlover _you_.

So you look into his eyes and continue, “I want you to make a promise. To honor the promise that you made in Dublin. Let me be free to choose. When Stithulf is defeated, when I have no promises to keep, let me choose.”

“Choose to leave me.”

“Choose to stay with you,” You retort as easily as he bitterly pointed out the other alternative. With your eyes searching his, you insist, “You don’t want a prisoner out of me, but I can’t be a wife if I can’t have it be my choice.”

And that is the question, is it not? Whether he is willing to rescind power to you in allowing you this freedom, the same way you rescind power to him in allowing him this control over you.

Whether whatever desire he has for you can surpass his desire for power.

Your mother’s words echo in your head, a painful reminder and the advice that makes a knot of dread clog your throat and a pit of grief -for the could be’s, the could have been’s, the hopes that can be crushed with but a word from Ivar’s lips- to form on your heart; _“Never trust a man to choose you over anything, much less a man in power to choose you over the illusion of holding onto said power.”_

Ivar’s jaw clenches, his eyes leave yours as his lips curve into a snarl.

“I don’t have a choice, you know that,” He sentences, and your lips part to let a shaky breath leave your lungs as you wait for him to continue. Looking back into your eyes, searching in the for something you don’t know if he can find, Ivar looks…uncertain, as if he stands as conflicted, as overwhelmed, as scared, as you. Finally, with but a twitch of anger in the angular face you’ve come to know so well, he states, “I agree.”

Your eyes fall closed as you breathe out a sigh, as your shoulders drop and a strange peace sets over you.

Sincerely, you offer, “Thank you.”

“One more thing,” Ivar calls out as you move to get out of bed, and you stop, bare feet on freezing ground. His eyes narrow slightly, his head tilts to the side, as if he is awaiting the chance to call you out on a lie as soon as the words leave his lips, “If Stithulf were to die today, what would you choose?”

You open your mouth, but close it again when no sound leaves your lips. Swallowing hard, you attempt,

“It is of no use to disc-…”

“I asked you a question. Answer me.” He demands, expression hardened as he raises his chin and squares his shoulders.

You meet his demanding gaze with your own, taking a deep breath.

“I would leave.”

He accepts your words with a hard nod, a moment where his eyes seem to want to lower from yours that tells you maybe, deep down, he expected a different answer.

But you know he tries to not give anything away, even if the underlying rage that simmers under the surface as he speaks next does,

“Tonight we’ll discuss what the scouts found on Stithulf’s movements. It is in your best interest to be there.”

The King dismisses you with a gesture of his hand, and you bow your head and take your leave.

____

So, that night you do as you were told and follow familiar paths to the room where his brothers await. You curl yourself into a ball in one of the softer chairs and watch the Vikings debate. Night is close to being over and the brothers still argue of battle. A thought of the rams in your homeland bashing their heads together for hours on end is brought forth in your mind, and you have to stifle a laugh behind the goblet you take a drink from.

“The warriors are tired and we lost too many, Ivar. Going after them now is a stalemate at best. Both your people and mine will resist.” Prince Ubbe insists, eyes firm and yet beseeching as they search his brother’s.

But the Viking King doesn’t give an inch, arguing with the tone of a man that refuses to even offer the possibility of losing a semblance of anything he deems his. In this case, power, his city, his army, whatever it is that seems to drive such a hard division between the two brothers.

“I don’t care if they resist, _I_ am King, they are to follow my commands!”

Hvitserk stands up, standing next to Ubbe and narrowing his eyes, “You talk like a tyrant, brother.”

You watch from your seat as the King’s shoulders rise swiftly with a quick intake of breath born of anger, of fury.

“As King,” The Viking starts, and now it is, without a doubt, a jab at his brothers to recognize his authority, even if his next words carry responsibility, truth, “It is my duty to keep our people safe. They will not be safe while we have a nearby city willing to support the Saxon army that threatens our borders!”

You have a feeling the more they argue with him, the more stubborn he will remain on his stance.

Before he can speak, though, you try your best to avoid unnecessary death.

“If I may.” You try, keeping your eyes on King Ivar. He motions with his hand, impatient.

“Speak, wife. That’s what I want you here for.”

“Right now the Saxons are more than vulnerable.” You quip. Your stomach turns into knots when so many pairs of eyes settle on you.

“Exactly.” The King grits out, but you shake your head.

“I am not agreeing with you,” You are quick to retort, feigning courage when you walk up to the table, “What I told you, it proved to be right when you reached Dublin, did it not? Stithulf doesn’t care about the numbers in your army, he cares about revenge on you and your brothers. He will not move if he’s being scouted, because he does not care about hurting your army, he cares about returning with enough strength to get close to the sons of Ragnar and avenge his King.”

“If we can lure him into moving, we intercept them when there’s little chance an ambush awaits us.” Hvitserk agrees, his eyes on yours for a second longer than normal, you think relaying a silent message you cannot understand.

But Ivar doesn’t acknowledge his brother, keeping pale eyes on you. You offer him a small smile, even as his lips press into a thin line in annoyance.

“ _You_ wanted me here, Viking.”

Ivar shakes his head, “I’m not regretting it,” He promises, before turning to his brother and stating, “We dim their numbers while they are on the move, and we can buy ourselves time to take that fucking town before they can set foot on it. I will find a way to smoke him out of hiding.”

Conversation regarding Prince Ubbe’s desire to send settlers somewhere further North soon starts, and the revenge, both yours and Ivar’s it seems, for very different reasons, against Stithulf and his men is forgotten for a while.

After a while, you lay a hand on Ivar’s shoulder to call for his attention, and whisper that you’ll be retiring for bed. He considers you in silence for a moment or two, his pale eyes searching yours, before he nods and returns tired eyes to the men before him.

You say your goodbyes to the people in the table to then stand up from your seat and motion for Whitehair that you are retiring to your quarters.

As you walk away, a figure by the doorway stops you with a murmur of your name, and you turn to find Prince Hvitserk offering you a smile. He dismisses the white-haired man with firm words, and although the older man hesitates, he returns inside and lets the Prince escort you to your rooms instead.

The Prince offers you his arm with a flourish that makes you laugh, and you take it, walking slowly in the late night.

“So, turns out you are no guileless prisoner, witch.” Hvitserk says with a chuckle, and you answer with a shrug.

_You clean the blood off your hands and arms on the ceramic pot offered by one of the slaves, and tell him quietly that he is dismissed to go rest. After all, they have spent as many countless hours as you and the other healers trying to keep as many men alive as possible._

_“How are you feeling, little one?” Sieghild asks as she motions for the place by the entrance of the tent where you agree to take a seat._

_“Tired,” You mutter, rolling your neck to relieve the tension and feeling your skin tacky where a soldier grabbed onto the back of your neck with a bloodied hand as he sought relief from the pain. With a grimace, you add, “Sticky.”_

_The Varangian chuckles, and passes you a wet rag to clean yourself further. You do so, feeling her always-probing green eyes on you._

_“Why did they lose?”_

_“What?”_

_“You heard me. Why did the Abbasids lose today?” She grabs a small stick from a pile by the fire, and tosses it to you. The gesture is so familiar and so much of a routine by now that you only laugh and start mapping out the battlefield on the sand._

“I was taught well.” You offer in response. He answers with an affirmative hum.

It is only after a while of silence that you hear him speak again, “I told you Ivar listened to you.”

“What I know is useful,” You answer simply, “I know how Stithulf acts. He is also allied with Arabs, whose ways of war I know. Your brother is not blind enough to ignore my advice.”

A chuckle answers to your words, but you don’t think Hvitserk means it as an offense, so you say nothing as you approach your door. When you reach it, you let go of his arm and murmur your goodnight to the Prince. He leans closer, towering over you as he says lowly, just for you to hear,

“Ivar is very blind when it comes to you, just not in this matter.” Hvitserk promises, granting you a smile of goodbye as he leaves you at your door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Ivar refuses to take responsibility for the shit he did, I hope that doesn’t surprise you lol. Between you and me, I headcanon (tho this is my story, so it is basically canon) that a part of him, however irrational or small, believed to some degree what the reader talks about here: that once you marry the one you wanted/loved, the story was done, the war was won. That didn’t work out how he expected it to tho, did it?
> 
> Anyhow, thank you so much for reading <3


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, some things at the beginning refer to stuff mentioned/detailed in Ivar’s PoV, which will be uploaded on Tuesday, so any doubts regarding what is mentioned about those first few days after the wedding will hopefully be cleared up then. Regardless of that, I always welcome any and all questions, of course!

The celebrations for Ivar’s wedding last more than a few days, you lose count -refuse to count, if you are honest-. It proves to be…not as awful as you believed, to be his wife, to be queen.

You are still by no accounts used to people calling you that. You sooner grew used to Ivar calling you his wife -which he does, _a lot_ \- than to the people of Kattegat calling you their Queen.

Of course, Ivar has noticed. He is exceedingly good at noticing things about you, in a way that if you were a sane woman, would frighten you.

The ring you bear on your hand, you noticed once the blood was washed off, is engraved with runes you aren’t familiar with, but bears the design of branches and leaves. A wreath of flowers to wrap around your finger instead of being placed on your head.

The crown he gifted you on the first morning you spent as husband and wife is also skilled metalwork with the delicate motif of flowers. You asked why, and his answer was, simply enough, that he knows _you like flowers._

On that same first morning he also pointed out he’s noticed your very deliberate intention to avoid having your hair braided in any way. It resulted in this silly game that still goes on, where you exchange a braid in your hair for the day for a question he must answer with the truth.

You’ve learned many things, and the thralls have been told to make intricate work of the braids he insists on seeing on you. You’ve learned more of Sigurd, and how he is somewhere in the Danes with an Earldom and a child on the way; you’ve learned of what happened with Margrethe when Ivar was younger, you’ve learned of his ambitions to be even more of a legend than his father ever was, you’ve learned of what he thought of you when he saw you across that battlefield.

And it is not just Ivar that has learned to notice things about the person at his side. You have grown keener to noticing the tells in his expression, in his voice, in his posture.

It is terrifyingly easy to find routine amidst all this madness. To find safety, peace.

It has always proven to be easy, when it comes to Ivar, for you to forget there’s a world past him. In Aneridge, the door to the hut closed and there were no Saxons, no dead and no living, no names. And now, here in Kattegat, you sit at his side on a throne of your own and there’s no chains, no past or future, no walls.

And now, in the borrowed time that it seems both you and Stithulf live in, there’s a freedom in being at his side you weren’t able to allow yourself before.

You know it should scare you, and sometimes it does. When easy steps guide you to him every night and familiar fingers run down your back unlacing your dress, you feel that in reveling in this familiarity, in being soothed by this strange peace, you betray your people, your home. When you slip under the furs of your shared bed and close your eyes and feel safe and warm and like you’d never want to leave, you are haunted by the question of why you deserve to choke with the hope you can still taste so long after the kiss you shared with Ivar, while Narses choked with the poison you fed him until the day he died.

____

You’ve realized many things, in these past few weeks.

Something they don’t speak of, something you frankly hadn’t considered before now; is how, regardless of your intentions, intimacy grows between two people that share most aspects of their lives, and every night they go to sleep together and wake up every morning together.

It makes you realize, the easy familiarity, the reluctant intimacy, that grow between you and Ivar, why it is so easy for arranged or unwanted marriages to fall into contempt, into resentment for one another.

Granted, that intimacy, that trust to close your eyes and trust you are safe even if alongside someone you did not want; it also explains the respect, the formal but honest affection you saw in the marriages of many elders back home.

If you are honest with yourself, which is something you’ve been trying to do more often, you know you will not grow to resent Ivar, you know you trusted him even before he became your husband.

No, you know -and fear, you fear to your very core- that all this familiarity, this intimacy, does is soften your foolish heart, make your chest fill with a warmth you shouldn’t feel in this land of cold.

But it doesn’t matter, you don’t have to make a choice, not yet. You don’t have to face what the choices you would have made would have said about you, for you didn’t make them; and you don’t have to face what this choice you could make says about you, because you haven’t made it yet.

It is a strange limbo to live on, a limbo that may last months or days or years, but you find you do not mind.

Point is, you’ve realized many things, in these last weeks.

This morning, as Ivar gets out of bed and in his absence lets the cold air enter the space he occupied before with no regard to your body so unused to Scandinavia’s cold, you also realize why so many women kill their husbands.

You grumble curses in your own tongue as you burrow further under the furs, and you could swear he huffs a laugh in response. Regardless of your reluctance, you know you are to get up soon as you hear the thralls walk in and leave the platters and pitchers on a nearby table.

You quickly prepare and let the infusion of red clover and chickweed sit before you skip your way over frozen ground to the dress you quickly fasten around you.

With your feet in the warm shoes and your body covered in something more than a flimsy nightgown that does nothing to protect you from the cold, you go along with what, surprisingly enough, has become another familiar routine for you since becoming his wife.

Turning your back to Ivar you fasten an earring as he tightens and ties the laces at the back of your dress.

Taking one hand off his task, he touches the hanging pendant that now adorns your ear, and asks,

“These are new.”

“A gift,” Before he can ask from whom, because of course he would, as if someone would be stupid enough to try and court Ivar the Boneless’ wife, you shrug, “A shieldmaiden gave them to me.”

“Why are you surprised? You are their Queen; they should want to earn your favor.”

With a shrug, you offer the only truth you can, “They don’t hate me, your people. I thought they would.

You sigh, and work on putting your other earring as you think on how to say this.

“I want you t-…” You stop yourself, and clearing your throat start over, “I have noticed that you shouldered a responsibility that was supposed to be mine, and I know-…Life hasn’t changed much for me or for the people here since I’ve become their queen, and…I know it is part of the reason they don’t hate me,” You straighten your head as Ivar finishes lacing up the dress, and turn around to face him. “I want you to know I am grateful.

But because pride wins, you join your hands in front of you and add,

“This could all have been avoided if you hadn’t forced me to marry you, of course. But, regardless, I…”

“You are welcome.” He interrupts you, his expression in equal parts exasperated and smug as he silences you.

You take a seat and wrap cold fingers around the hot drink, lifting your feet from the floor and bringing your knees closer to your chest.

Choosing to test how well you’ve taught Ivar your language, and how well he’s taken to understand it, you start, slowly and enunciating clearly,

“ _How far along are we from winter?_ ”

He replies with a smug smile and a tilt of his head,

“ _A month, at most._ ”

“ _Your Greek is getting better._ ” You reply, knowing pride seeps through your voice.

“Your Norse is still that of a Greek.” He taunts without missing a beat, and you roll your eyes even if your own lips betray a smile.

The doors to your rooms open and you are startled into attention. Prince Ubbe stalks into the room, muddied and battle-worn, but his eyes, and his rage, are settled on his brother.

The Prince departed what you’d like to say is two -three?- weeks ago, shortly after the wedding, to follow a trail further North with a small army. Ivar ordered him to, even if you know Stithulf will retreat to Strepshire.

As to why Ubbe was sent North, you don’t know. Maybe Ivar knew of some route to some village, maybe he knew something he didn’t share with you or his brothers. You don’t know.

What you do know, is that Prince Ubbe has returned and apparently has done so with a lot of pent up anger. You lower your legs back to a proper position, and stay silent and still as you wait for an explanation as to why the Viking barged into your rooms.

Ivar smiles, the cruel visage of the King of Kattegat as he starts to play, “Welcome back, brother. What did you find?”

The other man snarls, “Nothing. Not a fucking trail, Ivar. The Saxons are not traveling North, and we just gave them all the time they needed to get away.”

But Ivar doesn’t seem phased at all, shaking his head with a knowing and mocking smile.

“I know. They are moving for Strepshire.” He assures. You frown his way, begging him silently to stop being so fucking secretive.

The Prince finally takes notice of you, and a wide gesture of a big and dirtied hand towards where you sit precedes his loud words,

“Why are you so certain? Don’t tell me it’s because of what your witch tells you, brother, be-…”

Ivar interrupts him, mocking smile dimming and seriousness settling in his features, even as he speaks with gesturing hands and raised eyebrows, “Because _my wife_ was right. If they think we are not pursuing them they will move. I sent men disguised as merchants to travel the area, and while your little army made noise on the other side, they caught the Saxons moving for Strepshire.”

You are startled into silence, and for a moment you think so is his brother. Counting on his vitriol and his reluctant agreement with many of the things you say when the Vikings argue of the war against Stithulf and his men, you never expected Ivar to take your words to mind when planning his next move, not truly.

Prince Ubbe’s expression starts to switch from an enraged snarl and the eyes of a man raging over presumed failure; to realization and a hint of a surprised smile hidden under his beard.

“You sent me on a blind chase,” He huffs, fond exasperation in his voice, “You little shit, you could have told me the purpose was to distract them.”

Ivar shrugs, even if the mocking and mirth is still on his eyes, the tension between the brothers seems to lessen.

“It wouldn’t have been as convincing, brother.”

Half-hearted curses flow from Ubbe’s lips as he clasps one hand roughly on his younger brother’s shoulder, shaking the other Viking as he laughs. You have a feeling secrets of blood shared flow between them in those brief interactions, so you lower your gaze to your red clover and chickweed infusion and watch the herbs twirl.

“Witch,” The Prince calls, and you lift your gaze. With a sigh, he amends, using your name instead of the unwanted title before he continues, “I do value your counsel,” Your skepticism shows in your face, for the man huffs a short laugh and corrects, “I _should_ value it.”

“Thank you, Prince Ubbe.”

The older man takes his leave and when Ivar returns his gaze from the door to you, he frowns when faced with your wide smile.

“What?”

“You trust me.” You boast, a giggle leaving your lips. Ivar rolls his eyes in response, taking some almonds from a platter in the table and eating as you still stare at him with a smile.

“You are a strange woman.” He mumbles in response, but you shrug.

“I have been called worse,” Seeing he refuses to acknowledge your words, you insist, “And you trust me.”

Ivar’s eyes narrow, “I don’t trust easily.”

Whether that is a rebuttal of your claim or a warning to honor his trust in you, you cannot know for certain. Instead of giving him an answer, you offer a smile and drink from the almost scalding infusion.

____

“If we reach out to Sigurd, we can get a legal claim on that land, our people can-…”

“We don’t need a legal claim if we erase the Saxons from the earth, Ubbe. We can gather a bigger army, we can return to York, start raiding from there again.” The King interrupts his brother, and the other man is quick to jump into a discussion. The Prince’s voice raises, his hands gesture wildly, and of course it all is returned tenfold by the King.

Your eyes travel from Ivar to his oldest brother, back and forth as the two argue on and on and on and…

It has surely been too long of this, and you have only been here a couple of months. Hvitserk, on the other hand, has been dealing with this for Hera knows how long. He may be close to planning a coup and murdering both of his brothers, and you cannot say you would blame him.

You find Hvitserk’s gaze across the table, a middle ground between the two sons of Ragnar here in Kattegat in more ways than one. While Ivar yells for the army and resources to move for Wessex again and Ubbe argues with gritted teeth about earning more land to settle North; Hvitserk bites into an apple, granting you a half-hearted shrug in response to the rising voices of his brothers.

You hide your own smile behind the rim of your cup as you drink. Soon enough you and the Prince find yourselves discreetly battling for dominance as you throw almonds to battle his cashews, playing in turns to try and throw the pieces carefully so that they push the enemy pieces off the imaginary board.

The game evolves and changes, and after a while you are breathing little laughs as you try aiming some dried fruits and nuts into Hvitserk’s open mouth.

You ready another throw of a dried piece of some strange fruit, but a hand grabbing onto your wrist stops you. You lift startled eyes to meet Ivar’s enraged ones.

“Would you two stop acting like fucking children?” He growls, eyes jumping between you and his brother.

“We are having fun, brother,” Hvitserk answers around a mocking smile, drinking from his cup before adding, “Not that you would know what it is.”

You keep your gaze on Ivar’s profile as you pointedly tug your wrist out of his grasp, even as his attention remains on his brother.

“Hivtserk…” Ubbe sighs, and you watch him drag a hand over his face.

“What?” The other Prince shrugs, defiant before he turns eyes to the King. “He keeps her chained to his side, like some pretty bird in a cage. Least he could do is keep her happy.”

“So you’ll be the one to keep your brother’s wife happy?” Ubbe presses with a shake of his head, “Just shut up and eat.”

“I kept yours pretty happy, didn’t I, Ubbe?”

Instead of letting the conversation between the Princes go on, Ivar asks, cruel and cold but you know there’s more anger to him than his tone lets on,

“You want to fuck her, is that it?”

Well, that wasn’t what you were expecting. You turn wide eyes from the King to his brother, but Hvitserk only smiles slightly, completely calm.

“Ivar!” You hiss quietly, but he doesn’t even turn to you.

“All of Kattegat wants into her bed, brother,” Hvitserk replies, drawling out the words, “But you know this already.”

Ivar shows a smile as cold as it is feral, and even if it is not directed at you -thankfully- you still feel a thrill of cold run down your spine. Not so difficult to imagine, if that’s how he looks at his own brother, why the people of Kattegat fear their warlord King.

“And do you?” Ivar insists, making you frown.

“I didn’t take you for the sharing kind, brother.” Hvitserk replies easily, a merciless sort of mischief shining in his warm eyes.

“Stop this,” You warn, raising your voice a bit and dreading the few eyes that turn to look. Glancing at the Prince in silent admonishment, that he surprisingly accepts by lifting a hand in silent surrender; you then turn to your husband and state lowly, “It does not matter, I married _you_. I am your wife and I will not be spoken of as a slave to be passed around.”

He shakes off the touch of your hand on his arm, a gesture you didn’t even realize you did. Not noticing you had reached out to touch him, it shouldn’t hurt as it does to see him reject you, but it does.

“I think it’s time you go prepare for tonight’s feast, wife.” He dismisses without even looking at you, cold fury in his voice.

Even though you did nothing wrong, even if it is not your fault his temper flares without warning or motive; he dismisses you like an unwanted pet.

You grit your teeth and beg to Persephone, Freyja and all the Gods that your eyes do not betray the furious and powerless tears even if your eyes sting as you stand up and walk away.

The Gods made you many things, but none of the things you are would walk out with lowered eyes, with your head downcast, letting a man forget what he has done when trying to silence you.

____

When you are summoned to stand alongside Ivar for the start of the feast, you walk in with your head held high and what is sure to be what Sieghild called your Athenian nobility shining through in every step you take.

_You cross your legs, and tilt your head to the side. Your mother very obviously bristles at the display._

_“Narses will follow my-…”_

_“Commands?” Galla interrupts, sly smile on full lips._

_“_ Advice. _He will refuse to negotiate with the Saracens,” You insist, before shrugging, “There are no pacts-…”_

_“Don’t say it.” Sieghild warns, but you ignore it._

_“Between lions and men.” You finish with a smug smile. Your mother sighs in exasperation, rolls her eyes and drops her head to the back of the chair she sits in._

_“Gods above. I dread to imagine the kind of uptight little monster you’d be if I hadn’t been the one to raise you.” Sieghild grunts._

_“Yes, thank you, Sieghild. You raised a noble-blooded Athenian with the courage of a Varangian. A delightful woman to be around, especially when she doesn’t get her way.” Galla grumbles before standing up with a curse, and you frown._

_“Hey, I can hear you, both of you.”_

You bow your head in greeting to the Princes and King, and you could swear Ubbe and Hvitserk share a look between them, but say nothing.

Once the people are distracted enough, Ivar leans towards you from his place on the throne and states, “You are angry with me.”

“What a perceptive man you are, truly.”

“Don’t mock me, it won’t end well for you.”

“What will you do? Humiliate me in front of everyone?” You intone with a tilt of your head, furious eyes set on his.


	24. Chapter 24

That same night you catch sight of foreign faces sitting in some of the tables in the main hall, eating with the Vikings and exchanging tales. You keep your mouth shut, but look over their clothes, their weapons, listen for their voices, their accents. Arab people, probably merchants.

And the night progresses, with rich tales and exchanges, and drunker and drunker men, both Viking and foreign.

Your pride is still wounded, so at the first opportunity that presents itself to you, you walk away from the throne and the King, and greet Valdís with a hug as she signals for you to get closer.

You exchange a few words, and the shieldmaiden drinks deeply from her cup before looking into your eyes and stating,

“The whole of Kattegat knows you’re in a spat, you know?” You raise your eyebrows, but say nothing. She chuckles, “If you two fuck like you fight, I’m surprised you still walk, witch.”

Embarrassment chokes you for a second, and you face her with wide eyes and furrowed brows. The shieldmaiden only shrugs again, smiling.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you love me.” She boasts with a chuckle, standing up and with a hand on your shoulder murmuring a goodbye.

So, you sit alone now. There are people around you but the only ones to interact with you are the thralls that, seemingly unperturbed by the ruckus and noise that makes your head ache, refill your drink and offer you food and anything you may need.

You are tracing with your eyes the carving on one of the wooden pillars that hold up the structure of this hall when a man in traveler linens takes a seat in the bench at your side, dark eyes set on you and a goblet of mead in his hand. For some reason, you are not intimidated -and you don’t think he wants you to be- so you merely look at him in silence as he settles without fear at your side.

“Greek, aren’t you?” He starts casually, even if he looks over your dress and denotes the fact that you are, uncomfortably and against your wishes, dressed like a Norsewoman.

“Abbasid, I would assume,” You reply in the same tone, and the man nods with a smile of recognition. Offering him a smile of your own, although much more guarded and cautious, you add, “I hope you do not intend to carry the wars of our homelands to this place, good man.”

The dark-skinned man shakes his head with resolution, an almost-laugh leaving his lips.

“Not at all, not at all,” He reassures, voice like honey, “I wanted to speak with you, see for myself your well-being.”

“You are not one of Acar’s men, are you?” You ask with narrowed eyes, suddenly aware the Arab mercenary that fights alongside Stithulf may as well send spies to Kattegat, if he is smart enough. Or if he underestimates Ivar enough.

But the man in front of you shakes his head again, growing serious. You believe him, even if you have no reason to.

“Ah, the mercenary. My sword arm belongs to myself, not to Acar. I will fight and die for Allah and my home, not for money,” He vows, solemn. He drinks from his cup before looking into your eyes and asking, “And so would you, wouldn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

He motions to the place where you last saw the Viking King with a vague gesture of his hand, dismissive, “This…Ivar the Boneless. He could try to buy you with all the jewels and the finest dresses of his lands,” His dark eyes look over your dress again, and they don’t feel greedy or depraved like the eyes of other men who have looked over your body before. The man looks back into your eyes, and continues, “But you wouldn’t cave, would you? You would still return to Greece.”

Still, you refuse to give away any of your truths, cocking your head to the side and purring, “How are you so certain?”

He smiles darkly, still too close for comfort, and with a challenge in his eyes he says your name, syllable by syllable. You straighten to attention, and the Arab laughs quietly to himself.

“I would know you anywhere, Anassa of Attica,” He rejoices, and his next words are almost a whisper in your ear, “They can dress a wolf as a sheep, but it doesn’t change its nature.”

“Are you saying Viking women are sheep?” You ask without hesitation, the threat written in your face even as you smile at him, “I wouldn’t speak such things if I wanted to have a tongue to speak with.”

But the man only shakes his head with a laugh, leaning back and looking at you with a gesture of affection similar to those of a father dealing with an unruly child. You take a drink instead of showing a response, toying with the goblet in your hand afterwards.

“I’m saying that no amount of mead you drink, no gifts of…northern dresses and jewels for you to wear, no nights spent by that King’s side matter.”

“They don’t?” You ask coyly, drinking again.

“Despite them, you are still an Anassa, aren’t you?”

“An Anassa without a home, how legendary.” You quip bitterly.

The man still answers, roughened finger under your chin to lift your gaze and words genuine when he offers, “Defeat doesn’t suit you Greeks.”

“Stubbornness and pride have taken us far, haven’t they?” You ask around a shrug of your shoulders, sheepish and stupidly vulnerable as it is.

“These are a violent and cruel people, we both know this,” He starts quietly, leaning closer to you. “I will not let a woman suffer at the hands of a Viking.”

Your brows furrow, “What are you saying?”

“Say the word, and me and my men will fight to get you out of here. We might die trying, but isn’t death preferable?”

Your chest tightens, and a mindless and desperate part of you wants to say yes. It is a part of you that many times, especially in your first days here, when you’d looked upon Kattegat’s coast, imagined walking to the very bottom of the sea.

But that is not who you are, that is not who you choose to be. You will stand your ground and fight.

And you made a promise, one you do not intend to break.

“May your Allah bless you for trying to help me, but I do not need help. I will not leave my husband.”

The man considers you in silence for a few moments, before finally smiling to himself, accepting your answer.

“I never thought I would find in Kattegat of all places, a Greek Queen to share a drink with.” The man shares, laughing quietly again and when he does his dark skin wrinkles around his eyes.

He lifts his drink to you, and you touch the cup lightly with yours in a silent toast.

“To your health and fortune, traveler.” You thank him, genuine smile tugging at your lips with lifted spirits.

“To your health and grace, good woman.” The man replies as he stands up, leaving you alone with your thoughts in the boisterous hall.

____

You close your eyes and rest your head against the back of the wooden bathtub, thanking the girl that pours more hot water into it as you do so. Kattegat’s cold seeps into your bones during the day, but for now you can hide your body under the almost scalding waters and pretend Eleusis’ warmth remains with you.

If you focus, in the quiet of the room, past the wind blowing by your windows, you can hear the ruckus of the ongoing feast in the hall.

The thrall offers quietly for her to wash your hair, but you refuse her proposal with a smile, imagining she offers this because of how your hair, barely held up in a perilous updo, reacts to the humidity of the small room that doubles as a bathroom in your quarters.

Yells in a voice you are already familiar with reach your ears, and while the thrall stands to attention, you sink further into the water biting back a groan.

“My wife, where is she!?”

Stuttering answers leave the lips of the girl that was probably making your bed, and angry huffs of air and quick and vicious stabs of his crutch on the ground are the marching drums of King Ivar as he lets himself into the small, doorless room where you are bathing.

You smile, even if it is filled with poison, “Well, hello, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Ivar’s eyes burn like Greek Fire as they look into yours, the fury and the venom in them only making your heart beat quicker in thrill. Maybe Galla was right, maybe you do have a death wish.

“Where were you?” He grits out, demanding, furious.

Before answering, you turn your attention to the warm water around you and, lifting a hand -feeling the bite of the cold air on the wet skin immediately- trace the surface of the water distractedly.

“I have been here for a while, husband,” You promise around lips that want to scream at him to shove his demands somewhere else; and because you may as well have a death wish, keeping your face directed to the water but lifting your eyes to him, you add, “Was I to let my captor know of when I go to bed?”

The King doesn’t take his eyes off you while he barks to the thralls, “Get out.”

The two girls obey without hesitation, bowed head and trembling hands. One of them though, before leaving you alone, steals one last glance to you, maybe an apology, maybe a goodbye, you don’t know.

The thralls leave, and the door to your chambers falling shut echoes in your head for longer than you would like to admit.

And you admit it to yourself, that the danger you are in is a danger you are suddenly horrifyingly aware of. Naked, without any weapons and alone, facing a King _known_ for his cruelty and his violent ways.

Still, your arrogance wouldn’t let you stop talking even as they cut your head off, so you say, “Those were my thralls, Ivar.”

“And this is my kingdom.” He replies without hesitation, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.

“Well, what was so urgent you had to leave your hall for? Surely it wasn’t that your foreign entertainment was off to her room? You had others tonight.”

There’s a part of your mind asking you if you are truly throwing a fit because he didn’t pay enough attention to you tonight, but you quieten it.

And, it seems, the King pays it no mind, instead considering you in silence. You sink further into the water, careful not to get your hair wet, and eye him with distrust.

“Aren’t you going to come out?” He drawls out suddenly, eyes dark and defying, “That water will grow cold soon, woman.”

He is challenging you to duck your head, to stutter words of what is proper and give him the upper hand. You refuse to, even if it makes your stomach tighten in apprehension and embarrassment to be put in the spot like this.

“Pass me that.” You order, motioning to an ivory linen waiting for you in one of the tables. Ivar’s head wobbles in a reluctant nod of acquiescence as he limps his way to it.

Instead of walking to you and offering it to your outstretched hand, he walks back to the doorway that leads to the rest of your room, holding the linen in his free hand.

“Here you go.” He challenges, smirk proudly set in place, like he delights himself in these games.

You have no doubt he does, but so do you.

“I asked you to bring it to me.”

“Surely you won’t make a poor cripple walk all the way there, will you?” He mocks, head tilted to the side and expression smug. “Come get it.”

“Why should I?” You ask around a smile and narrowed eyes.

He shrugs, forced nonchalance that still manages to get under your skin and make your annoyance flare up.

“You said it yourself, you are my entertainment.”

Swallowing the shame and the apprehension, you put on a façade of confidence and stand up from the bathtub. The cold air -even with the hearth lit- of the rooms hits your bare skin and almost makes you shiver.

“You are an insufferable and spoiled brute.” You bite out as you walk to him, trying to ignore the way his eyes travel up your body with a hunger no one never looked at you with before, making heat coil at your stomach like a serpent.

You snatch the linens form his hand, covering your body quickly enough and marching to the front part of your quarters. You still feel Ivar’s eyes on you, burning.

“I would watch what my tongue says if I were you.” The King growls, but the emotion in his voice has nothing to do with anger. Well, when it comes to Ivar, you think it has a little to do with anger. The fun kind, though.

“I would watch where my eyes are looking if I were you.” You reply in the same tone, although the bite in your words is entirely born out of anger, and not the fun kind of it. Almost entirely.

“You’re my wife, I can look all I want.”

With a grunt that speaks of wanting to end this conversation before you have no choice but to give him victory, you sit by the smaller dresser where the…Viking version of himation and similar accessories are kept, and start brushing your maddened hair in front of the mirror set over said dresser.

“Why did you leave the hall?” The King demands, and you find his petulant gaze through the reflection in the mirror.

“I was bored.” You offer in explanation, but he shakes his head, lip curled in anger.

“I saw you, don’t think I didn’t,” He hisses back, and this makes you stop and turn in your seat to face him. He narrows his eyes, and explains, “Talking and laughing with that merchant.”

“Is that not allowed?” You ask around a mocking glare, although you are completely certain the Viking has no qualms in saying it is not. “He was friendly, and I was bored and alone.”

He is too smart to bite into that particular bait, you begrudgingly accept.

Instead, the King refuses to answer, limping towards the door and only stopping when he is at the doorway, murmured words to one of his men to keep you inside.

Sparing you one last look, he reminds you, “I shouldn’t have to remind you, _wife_ , that you answer to me. You do as I say.”

You watch him leave with your eyes set on him, not bothering in masking your anger. When he leaves, you throw the comb you were using on your hair and let out a frustrated growl, pacing the room and gritting your teeth so hard you fear they’ll break.

Pretty bird in a cage it is, it seems.

____

You wake the next morning long after your husband, if he ever actually slept here, has left. And it is only at the meek words of a thrall warning you there’s someone at your door that asks for permission to enter.

Freydis walks in with a small smile that seems to be perpetually etched on her pretty face, and you lean back on your seat, but say nothing.

“Walk with me.” The blonde offers, gesturing to the world outside these walls with her head.

You consider her offer for a few moments, but eventually nod and link your arm with hers and set for the path she wants you to walk.

Freydis guides you the familiar paths to the small hub that always forms near the docks, nothing on Kattegat’s main market further away from the coastline, but still loud and alive.

Your eyes, even as conversation between you flows, travel to the bodies you find hanging near a rocky elevation near the port, as if planted there for everyone to see.

“Mercenaries at the pay of the Saxons, they were captured during the night. The whole port heard the commotion.” Freydis shares simply, but releases your arm when you step forward towards the hung bodies.

The ashen face on the torn body that dangles lifelessly is, much to your horror, a familiar one. Your eyes meet the dead ones of the merchant that talked with you the night before. That made the terrible mistake of making you _laugh_.

“Why did you bring me here?” You ask hoarsely, not taking your eyes off what is sure to be his doing. Because as you take in the faces of the Arab men that lie dead before you, you cannot help but think it wouldn’t be past him or his cruelty to make someone take you to see this.

“We are on the way for the new shipments, I thought you’d want to look at the novelties the merchants brought.” Freydis states, and her hand grabs at your elbow, but you don’t take your eyes off the man. You cannot.

You tell her you will be returning to your home, and while you hope she believes the reason for your shaking hands and gritted teeth all the way back to the longhouse to be only a woman queasy at the sight of death, you know she knows better.


	25. Chapter 25

You want to cry at the injustice, at the helplessness. You want to scream until your throat goes raw and one way or another the Gods hear you. You want to destroy everything in this room and in this house and in this kingdom.

But you only stay in the bed, your knees folded close to your chest and your arms hugging them tight to you, as if to keep you together.

When you hear him enter, you don’t lift your gaze from the nothingness in front of you, but you do speak, even if your voice sounds like you haven’t spoken in a century.

“You killed an innocent man, because you were angry with me.”

“He wasn’t innocent, if you had any i-…”

“I don’t care. You killed him,” You shake your head, and feel your temper rising alongside your voice, “He was kind, and he was familiar, and you _killed him_.”

“I did what was best for our people. He could have been one of Stithulf’s men, we have no way of knowing.”

You lift a trembling hand and point a finger at him.

“That’s a lie, and we both know it. _Don’t_ lie to me.”

He considers you in silence, but you know he will not grant you a tiny victory even if he agrees with your demand. He breathes in through his nose slowly, as if to calm himself, before he squares his shoulders and finds words with which to retort.

“He was an enemy, that is no lie,” He states confidently, using his free arm to lift one of his legs onto a table where he sits. At your silence, he continues, gesturing with his hand “Did you think I wouldn’t hear him talk about taking my wife from me?”

“What? How do you-…?”

“Do you think anything happens here that I don’t know of?” You bite your tongue to keep yourself from answering that yes, you do. 

“Someone told you,” You sentence, cold clarity settling over you, “You weren’t close enough to hear. Someone went to you and told you of what that man offered me.”

You see it clearly written in his eyes, the moment where, past the fury at your disobedience, past the short-sightedness that the desire for retribution brings forth; he realizes you are right.

For a moment, you think he will tell you who it was that tried fooling him, that tried sentencing you. But his pale eyes only narrow before he returns to the vitriol that accompanies refusing to admit he commited a fault.

“He offered to help you escape.”

You swallow past a knot of fury and disgust, and say, “I shouldn’t have to _escape_ you.

He smiles coldly, cruelly, but comments nothing on it.

“Did they tell you of my answer?” You press, scrambling to lean on your knees on the bed, “Did they tell you I said no? Because I did. You had no reason to kill him, I never accepted!”

His voice, his temper, rises to meet yours, “It doesn’t matter! He tried taking you away from me!”

You run your hands through your hair, biting down a frustrated scream.

“Gods, Ivar, do you hear yourself? This is madness!” Dragging your hands over your face, you take a deep breath and focus, trying to find anything in you that isn’t begging for you to _make him pay_. “He was a good man trying to help a woman he thought a prisoner!

You pace in the room, and you know it drives him mad when you refuse to stay still, so you make sure you pace even more quickly than usual.

“And…I said no, I was blinded enough to believe I was no longer a prisoner here, but t-that’s a lie! A lie I’ve been telling myself, a lie you’ve been telling me!”

“You are a free woman, freer than many!” Ivar shouts back, but you are shaking your head before he is even done speaking.

“If I were free, those men wouldn’t have offered to die to grant me freedom.

Your breath stutters, your words waver. But you refuse to think of that as weakness,

“And now they’re dead, and it’s my-…” You cut yourself off, closing your eyes tight and taking a breath, “No, no. This isn’t my fault, their deaths aren’t…they aren’t on me,” Your eyes open and find his. You fear a part of you is too alike him, and the coldness and cruelty written in his eyes finds a match in your own, “ _You_ killed them, their deaths are on _you_ , this is _your_ fault.”

You walk to a table, grabbing a goblet of mead and dawning it before promising,

“You want to treat me like a prisoner, killing those who try to free me, putting me in a cage and losing the key. You shall be nothing but a captor to me then, nothing but the cruel King that took me from my people.”

____

You motion to the bodies, and the shieldmaiden at your side falters. You raise an eyebrow.

“Get them down,” You order her, and the others that accompany her. “They will be buried properly.”

“My-…”

“I gave you an order, it isn’t wise to ignore it,” You state lowly, and walk a few steps to the side so they can walk to the platform where the bodies still hang. You tilt your head to the side, “Get them down, or take their place.”

They do as they are told, cutting off the ropes keeping the bodies hung and starting the necessary procedures.

For a Hiereia of the Gods of the Dead, one used and familiar with death and all that comes with it; there is still a very strong urge in you to divert your eyes from the gruesome evidence of Ivar’s cruelty, but you force yourself to be a witness to it.

For helping you, for their grace and their good hearts, these men are dead. You owe them the respect of remembering their faces, even if twisted by death’s touch.

“Bury them with their feet facing…” You falter, looking around. The realization you are as lost as if you were in the middle of the sea dawns on you. You don’t know where their holy place is, you don’t know where you are, where…where anything is. It truly feels, for a moment as terrifying as the moment where you believe you may fall off the edge of a cliff, as if you truly are in a realm of cold and death, in a world so unlike yours that that you can’t recognize North from South anymore.

“Facing that way, Greek.” A merchant barks without prompting, pointing with his hand.

“T-Thank you.” You state, but the man doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge your words. He just continues walking, his head down and his focus on his task.

You make sure they move their bodies to the correct position, and when they are laid to rest you whisper what the years have let you remember of their language, of their prayers, of their God.

Kneeling on the ground, you ask their Allah for mercy, you ask he welcomes them home with open arms. And with your hands on the cold earth of this realm you’ll never belong to, you whisper familiar prayers to Persephone, Hades, and all the Gods of the Underworld that their deaths mean something, a change, even if that change, means the hardening of your foolish heart.

You find yourself in the apothecary not long after, a warm infusion in your hands and your eyes focused on how a recently-freed thrall girl attempts to pluck and store dried rosemary.

“You certainly look happy. What has the King done now?” Valdís states, and you only offer an attempt at a smile, and return your eyes to the girl’s inexperienced hands.

The blonde shieldmaiden takes a seat next to you, and without prompting states, “You want to kill him.”

You sigh, “No, I don’t.”

“Maim him?” She offers, and you reply with a chuckle, and a shrug.

“Possibly.”

Valdís laughs at your response, and lays a heavy hand on your shoulder, hugging you to her side.

“The years have taught me-…”

“Stop that, you’re not much older than me.” You quip, but she ignores you in favor of her supposed wise advice.

“That sometimes it’s better to talk to one another and just…be honest.” She finishes, a side smile on her face.

“Do you know who you’re talking about?” You ask her, eyebrows raised and the anger you still hold towards Ivar seeping into your tone, “He killed three men because he chose to believe I’d rather die attempting an escape than stay with him.”

“That’s why you need _honesty,_ witch,” She insists, “Tis the one thing that’ll keep people like the two of you together.”

But you lift your chin, and tighten your hands into fists, lying through gritted teeth, “I don’t expect to ‘stay together’. I have no interest being at a madman’s side.”

“Then why stay this long? Why-…” Valdís stops herself, and her voice lowers, “You are happy here, I’ve seen it. You care for him.”

“For who I thought he was,” You shake your head, “You can’t change a monster’s nature.”

Freydis shuffles in her place at your words, so uncharacteristically out of place you frown her way, questions as to what is the matter with her at the tip of your tongue.

“Not a monster,” She states before you can say anything, “A man. A monstrous man, but still…”

“You accused me of protecting him not long ago, and now you try to defend him?” Your voice raises with each word that leaves your lips, and for once even Valdís stays silent. “He killed innocent men, because he wanted to hurt me, because he wanted to punish them for trying to give me _freedom_.”

Freydis doesn’t even look at you as she states, “He loves you. What he did, he did out of love.”

You consider herin silence, with wide eyes and parted lips. Disbelief at how valiantly she defends the man that killed innocents because he believed they could have helped you betray him, anger at how she so easily claims to know the truth, hurt at the stupid feeling of betrayal at having her defend his position instead of yours.

For a moment you don’t know what to say, how to react, how to make her _understand_.

“Oh, fuck you.” You settle for saying, rolling your eyes and standing up.

“You think I’m wrong?” She calls out.

“I know so,” You turn around and meet her blue eyes, and Freydis’ expression turns guarded at whatever she sees in yours, “Betrayal isn’t love, Freydis. _Trust_ is.”

____

It doesn’t surprise you in the slightest, that for as long as you can hold a grudge, Ivar can hold on to unfounded anger. And so days pass, almost two weeks, and you refuse to offer any semblance of the side of you that you’ve foolishly let breathe these last few weeks, the soft and stupid side of you that never ceased to be a young girl surrounded by wildflowers; and of course, Ivar refuses to show it gets to him that now all he has at his side are the hard edges of the part of you he made you his wife to avoid facing.

You told him once a Hiereia of Persephone doesn’t take lightly to marriage, that accepting a man as your husband before the Gods meant you would vow loyalty, faithfulness; and you still stand by those words. You do not intend to turn your back to him, or this union; but you will not let him get away with the mistake of attempting to imprison you, you will not let him believe you easily forgive or forget monstrous acts such as the one form a couple of days ago.

And so, every night since the night you promised him if he wanted invisible shackles at your wrists you would live as if in a cage, you sit by his side, head held high and giving away nothing. But you refuse to speak to him unless spoken to, and even then, your words are curt and your voice cold.

Every night since he made the mistake of betraying your trust in him by refusing to trust in you, you allow yourself to feel the same lightness, the same happiness you have for a long time, alongside anyone but the man that made you his wife. With him, your eyes remain distant and your smiles poisonous.

And you learn many things, like you did on those first weeks of this marriage.

You learned long ago Ivar meets fire with fire, anger with anger. Each time your voice raises so does his, each time you grow stubborn and prideful so does he, each time your teeth are gritted and hands tightened into fists his lips are curved into a snarl and his eyes shine with fury.

But you learn now Ivar doesn’t know what to do with coldness. For each day of your distance, you see him falter more and more; for each failed attempt to break down walls his mistakes put there, you notice the tells of anguish in his expression.

The part of you that is wide eyed and soft, the part of you that you have kept alive through stubbornness alone, refusing to let the world take one more thing from you, even if that one thing is your softness; that part feels a pang of pain each time, that part whispers pleas that both he and you cede and return to normalcy.

The part of you that walked out of a fire with nothing but hunger for more war, the part of you that is the result of the jagged edges left behind by everything the world took from you; that part is cruelly delighted in knowing you aren’t the only one with foolish weaknesses, that part will not give an inch unless he admits his faults.


	26. Chapter 26

Ivar startles you one night, sitting in the dim light of your shared room and starting to talk as soon as you walk through the door.

“What would you have done? If someone had come and promised they could take…take something from you, what would you have done to stop them?”

“You didn’t have to stop them, Ivar,” You bite out with no little anger in your tone. You take a deep breath before speaking again, in what you hope sounds like certainty. “Unless I agree, no one will take me from here. And I won’t agree, you should know that.”

“Why should I know that, hm? Why do you act like it should me so clear to me that y-…?”

“I promised,” You interrupt softly, ignoring every bit of who you are and walking towards him. “I married you, Ivar.”

“That doesn’t…” He stops himself, a deep breath of anger and frustration and so much more, and then starts again, “It doesn’t mean anything, though, does it?”

“If that doesn’t, then what would?”

He holds your gaze, but eventually shakes his head.

“That’s enough. Go to sleep.”

“No,” You refuse, raising your chin, “Answer me.”

“I _said_ that’s enough!” He snaps back, eyes wide and furious and set on you.

You only curl your lip in anger, and stomp your way to change out of the dress and into your nightclothes. As you wrap the robe over the nightdress, you can sense his eyes on you, you can feel the chaos lurching under the surface of pretend control.

It usually is that way with him. Chaos and fury and fire perilously kept at bay by gritted teeth and cruelty, wildfire waiting but for one crack in the wall to spill and burn it all.

Burn him, too.

You may still flinch when a fire is breathed too much life, you may still have dreams of charred flesh and screams, but the Gods made you a woman that would never accept fearing any man, no matter the kind of fire he wields.

And because you could never keep your mouth shut and the Gods know you won’t start now, you state,

“You _hurt_ me. You wanted to remind me you could, so you did,” You point out, for once not caring how your voice wavers. “And _you_ get the right to be angry?”

“Be angry, I’m not stopping you!” Ivar yells, turning to you with fury burning in his pale eyes, “Be angry, be cruel! Fight me, I don’t care, just…stop this.”

“Stop what? I haven’t done anything.” You insist, frowning.

“Yes, yes you have,” He lifts an accusatory hand to point towards you, before that same hand runs over his hair, settling at the back of his neck. “You are…” His breath leaves parted lips, “You are soft, and _good_ , and it’s driving me mad.”

“How is that my fault?”

“Because you…” His words fail him and it is with an angry snarl that he stands up, limping towards a table and grabbing a horn of mead, drinking before deciding to turn accusing eyes to you. “You said _no_.”

“To the merchant?” You ask, a furrow of your brows.

“You had a chance to leave, to escape, and you refused it.

You only watch with wide eyes as his gaze searches the nothingness in front of him. A blinded man trying to make sense of the world, frantic and uncertain.

Ivar’s voice is low but unwavering when he continues, certain and still holding that angry edge, “I’m not an idiot, I know this isn’t where you want to be. I see you still shiver when the night falls, you aren’t used to the cold, you were made for warm and sunny places; I notice you still hesitate with many things about our language, our ways; I…I know you don’t feel at home, I know I took you from the people you loved, from where you belonged.

A part of you, a part of you that you sometimes fear is too alike him, wants to bite back he has no right to say where you do or don’t belong, wants to remind him your mother made you strong and the years made you resilient, wants to let him know no cold and no realm of death can make you break.

But he isn’t saying those words to insult you, or attack you, you realize. In the reminder that you are soft and warm and gentle there isn’t the accusation of a fault in you, but rather…rather a fault in him, in what he did.

You realize the edge of regret in his tone, and a part of you curses Fate for making it so that the one time he admits to regretting something he did, is when he shouldn’t.

Because yes, you aren’t used to Kattegat’s cold, even more so now that winter approaches, but it is easy to forget the cold, when you sip sweet drinks and are surrounded with people of loud laughs; it is easy to feel warm when you have Ivar with you.

And yes, you still have much to learn when it comes to these people and their customs, their traditions and their ways; but you revel in the tales and lessons the women at the apothecary share with you as you work, their voices warm and their laughs light; in the moments you can spend with Ivar having him teach you the way of his people, his eyes bright and voice enthralling, with each tale he tells drawing you further in.

This isn’t the place you were born in, this isn’t the place you imagined your life in, but here you have people you trust, people that love you not because of who your legacy says you ought to be, but for who you are; and the Greeks aren’t with you and your heart mourns for them still, but the people of Kattegat are your people as much as they are. This is your home, too.

But you don’t say anything, you only look at Ivar with wide eyes as he moves to the bed, sitting on it, leaning back on the backrest.

“And after all I did to you, after…everything, you are still soft and…and light, and good and I…”

“You are driving yourself mad?” You supply tentatively, a hint of mirth in your voice.

Ivar chuckles, but it is humorless and it sounds like a dying breath.

“You said no,” He repeats, and it sounds like an accusation at you as much as it sounds like a reassurance for himself. “And you look happy here and I…I wonder if you are fooling me or I’m fooling myself into believing…” He stops himself with a twitch of anger in his nose, the clear tell he feels he’s given too much away. But you remain silent, you refuse to ask him to continue but also to give him ground to retreat. Eventually, he sighs, “Believing you would choose to stay, when this is over. Because you are-…you said no, and…Gods, woman, you know you should have said yes to him. A smart woman would have said yes.”

For a moment as long as the blink of your eyes he is just a Viking and you are just a Priestess, in some old hut in a city you will never return to, being the strangers you will never be again.

His words from that first day echo in your head like an old song, “ _A smart woman would know better than to deny me._ ”

And your reply is still the same, “I never claimed to be smart.”

He doesn’t reply, fingers making quick work at the iron braces around his legs, with practiced ease. Before long, he takes both of them off -you’ve noticed he takes the left one first, the armored and heavier one- and sets them in their low table by his side of the bed.

He is maneuvering his legs into a comfortable position -though you notice he doesn’t get under the furs yet- when he asks,

“Why? Why did you say no? Why didn’t you leave?”

The answers come easy to you. Your vow to kill Stithulf isn’t fulfilled, he still lives and so does your desire for revenge. You knew those men would fail at helping you escape, four armed merchants against Ivar the Boneless and his army.

You could answer with any of those reasons, and it would be true. But it wouldn’t be the truth.

“I promised,” You reply easily, holding his gaze. After a moment, your heart trembles its beat inside your chest and your breath stutters past parted lips, and you approach him, sitting on the bed. Your heart has always been foolish, and so it robs you of your choice, making the words leave your lips before you can try to stop them, “I am…I am living on borrowed time as much as you are, this feels…it feels like a strange limbo, a state between being dead and alive.

You remember the Abbasid traveler of weathered skin and wise eyes, Aamir, the man you met on the Roads so long ago. You remember the night he looked right through you, making you think that for a man so certain there was only one God he spoke with the wisdom of those blessed by Apollo.

His words when he spoke of those worlds in between, even after so many years, still echo in your head, a lesson you haven’t forgotten, _They are filled with opportunity, life or death, past or future, nostalgia or hope._

You lick your lips before continuing, “I don’t know what my choice would be, I don’t…I don’t want to. I know what I _should_ choose, but I don’t…I can’t make that choice, not yet,” Your words taste like pleas, to Fate, to the Gods, to anyone who might hear, that this borrowed time may last a lifetime. But you can’t admit that, that would mean betrayal of everything you ought to be. “Pretending to know what my choice will be is no different than keeping me from choosing. I only ask you let go of that certainty that I will leave.

And the part of you that is angry and raw and hurt refuses to leave you vulnerable to his answer, refuses to give him ground to stand on, refuses to have him believe this is a war he can win.

So, you continue, spiteful and angry, “But you can’t, can you? Because it would imply trusting me, and you can’t trust me.

You nod to yourself, and at the anger that takes over his expression, the contained vitriol at the realization you are right; you only grow more bitter.

“You know, for a man as cunning as you are, for someone so used to observing people, for how perceptive you are to all that makes me… _me_ ; you refuse to see what’s right beside you. You refuse to acknowledge that ever since I stepped down from that boat I have been at your side.

Freydis’ promises she would one day help you escape, the countless times you looked at the horizon of the kingdom you were forced to call your own and knew escaping would be easy, the fights with the blonde you call a friend over the fact that if you just were willing to play you’d have all you ever wanted.

“I have had many chances to betray you, to leave you, before and after we were married. This man wasn’t the first to offer me a life without you in it, and he won’t be the last. Each time, I’ve said no. And for all that will come, I will say no.

You gesture with your hands in a sign of helplessness, of defeat.

“And yet you refuse to trust me,” It is helpless and hopeless, the smile you are able to offer, “You trust me with your life, I know this, you wouldn’t sleep each night by my side knowing I could slit your throat while you’re vulnerable if you didn’t trust your life to me. But you don’t trust me with-…”

 _Your heart_.

You stop yourself, and close your eyes with a sigh. Shaking your head at yourself, at how foolish you are, at how soft and lovesick you remain, you stand up from the bed, walking to your side of it and sitting down with your back turned to Ivar.

You start attempting to untie the knot in the robe you wear over the nightclothes, ready to sleep off these nightmarish weeks, but the sound of Ivar rusting behind you, moving closer to youn on the bed, so close you can feel the warmth of his body at your back, stops you.

Hesitant fingers trace your back, grab an uncharacteristically delicate hold of the ends of your loose hair.

“One braid?” Ivar asks, voice low, hoarse.

You nod, ignoring the part of you that demands you let go of this pathetic softness, that presses you to seal off weak spots, that begs you to hold on to the anger.

You feel him start to make slow work of the one braid to go down your back, and you sigh shakily.

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice so quiet you think you’ve imagined it. A part of you begs you to turn around, but you remain still, waiting for him to continue, “I wasn’t thinking and I…I regret it.”

You feel the stupid urge to cry taking over you, but you grit your teeth and focus on breathing. Giving away weakness is not something you’ll allow yourself now.

Even if your voice is hoarse you for once don’t attempt to hide it, “I care not for regret if it isn’t accompanied by the promise to never do something like that again.”

You know you are pushing your luck, you know somewhere in the world Sieghild is getting a headache at your recklessness, you know a smart woman would back down and accept it as a victory.

But you never claimed to be smart.

Ivar takes a deep breath, and his hands still, their work on your hair paused for a moment.

It feels like asking him to promise you freedom when Stithulf dies all over again. A baited breath, a moment where you fear he cannot guarantee the one thing you ask for.

“You have my word.”

And just like then, to your peace and his torment, he offers a promise.

And just like then, for better or worse, you believe him.

You return to silence, but realize your part of the bargain that comes with this arrangement you two have had for weeks regarding your hair being braided isn’t fulfilled.

“Why can’t you trust me, Ivar?” Is the truth you ask in exchange for the braid.

“I do,” He replies certainly, taking you by surprise, “You insist I don’t, but I do trust you. More than anyone.”

“Yet you think I’ll betray you, you…you think I’d choose anything and anyone over you.”

The only answer you get is the crackling of the fire, the rusting of clothing as Ivar’s arms move as he works on the braid. And so you are lulled into safety, into warmth, by the familiar quiet of your room and the -even now- comforting presence of Ivar at your side.

Without prompting, his voice low, he offers, “I…I can’t stand the thought of them having…having more of you than I do.”

“They don’t.” You reply easily, but still quietly, as if not to break the tentative truce that has settled in the air.

Ivar only huffs a breath that tells you he very much doubts it.

A truth of your own, a truth of how no one has ever had as much of you -of your mind, of your heart, of your soul- as he does, is at the tip of your tongue, but pride keeps those words at bay.

What you offer is the closest you can get to the truth without making it the raw and terrifying reality that leaves you vulnerable.

“With you I…I am the most at peace with myself I have been ever since I was no one, just a healer in the Silk Roads,” Your shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, “I am myself when I am with you, in a way I never could with any other. Never doubt that.

You turn your head towards him when you feel him let go of your hair, and keeping your eyes on his, for once not hiding anything, you whisper,

“Also never doubt that if I felt for you the same way I do for any of the people you so envy, for what you did to those men, to _me_ , I would have killed or left you.”

____

You hold back a sigh and turn around on the bed, careful not to let too much frigid air pierce the warmth around you.

Before you can ponder too long on what may have woken you, you are reminded of one of the first observations you made about the King of Kattegat: he talks in his sleep.

Ivar lays on his back next to you, one of his arms folded over his head and face now turned towards you.

As you let your eyes trace his features as he sleeps, free of the almost permanent tension that coils around his whole body and expression during the day, the cruel smiles and nose curled in anger absent, you have to close your hand into a fist to resist foolish temptations of reaching up and tracing his face with your fingers.

You did horrible things, once. You did cruel things, played twisted games, and said it was necessary.

You looked into a man’s eyes, promised him forever, swore to love him, and then killed him while his heart still beat by making him realize it had all been a lie, a ruse, a game.

And he forgave you. Narses looked at you and all the awful things you did, and chose to forgive you.

You called him weak, you called him a fool.

But now you look at Ivar, you face every horrible thing he has done, to you and to others; you remember every cruel word and every time he put binds on you; and you realize that you can still find it in you to forgive him.

Maybe you are weak, maybe you are a fool. But it doesn’t scare you as much as it should, the realization of the kind of hold the Viking has on your heart.

It doesn’t scare you, you realize, because what his mind tells him to believe and what it is less frightening for you to have him believe are one and the same: that you are counting the days until your vow is fulfilled and you can make the choice you weren’t able to before.

You know he won’t think your heart is foolish enough to have you make the choice to stay; because a smart a man as he might be, he is also uncertain, vulnerable, and, when it comes to matters like this, when it comes to _you_ , surprisingly defenseless.

This particular secret can remain only yours for a while longer, you think as you let yourself fall back asleep.

Dreams of bloodied lips smiling behind a red veil prove no secret is only yours.

Before you can take your leave the next morning, Ivar quickly grabs at your hand and stops you. Turning around with hundreds of questions at the tip of your tongue, you find those turning into thousands as you meet Ivar’s eyes.

He looks at you with what someone that didn’t know him would think is pain, is _fear_.

He clenches his jaw, takes a slow breath through his nose before he speaks.

“Have you forgiven me?” His voice is quiet, so quiet.

You search his eyes, and a sad smile curves faintly at your lips. Though a part of you wants to for once allow you to only be soft and gentle, like Ivar said last night, you were never only one thing.

And because you are iron and arrogance and pride as much as you are any other thing, you whisper, repeating back to him his words on your wedding night,

“You’ve chained me, but don’t forget I’ve chained you too.”

_I can hurt you, just as you can hurt me._


	27. Chapter 27

You think you listen faintly of men marching for the gates, the characteristic rolling of Ivar’s war chariot, of yells and orders barked. But, even if sharing a glance of curiosity and questioning with Freydis, you still continue working and talking like nothing has happened.

Whitehair makes his presence known only by walking in, the massive one-eyed warrior crossing his arms and bowing his head in greeting.

“My Queen, you are needed. Follow me.” Is all he says before he turns around.

A thousand thoughts run through your head as you wrap the cloak around you and leave the apothecary. Still, you ask no questions -fully aware the warrior will not answer- as Whitehair walks you to the center of the town.

There’s a crowd forming slowly around the Viking warriors and their King, although the people keep a distance from Ivar and his brother where they stand. You catch Hvitserk’s eyes, and he offers you a smile, even if he is covered in blood.

Now that you pay attention, so are most of the warriors standing around the King and Prince. So is Ivar.

“Wife,” Ivar calls out when he sees you, and motions for you to come closer. You do so, your attention momentarily stolen by the dozen or so men the King has in chains in front of him. “Do you recognize these men?”

You eye the warriors, studying the faces that look back at you with pure hatred and, you think, a hint of fear.

“They are Saxons.” You say quietly, a question as to what he means written in your expression as you gaze back up at Ivar’s eyes. He nods with a roll of his eyes, a hint of the mirth you have grown to hate and love in his gaze.

“I know,” He maneuvers you with one hand so that you stand in front of him, facing the chained men. Keeping his hand on your shoulder, Ivar presses, voice quiet, “Hvitty and I caught them near the walls. What should we do with them?”

You straighten to attention, looking into the eyes of the men in front of you. They could be fathers, friends, brothers, sons.

But Galla could have been a mother, she was a friend, a daughter, a sister. So were the hundreds of Greeks Stithulf and his men sent to their deaths for something as stupid as fighting for the honor of a dead King.

You will not seek forgiveness for wanting to see them die. Soldiers like these marched to your home and burnt it all, soldiers like these laughed as their brothers in arms tied you to a pyre and lit the same fire that burned you and many others. Soldiers like these you wish you could find in Hades if only to torment them again.

Instead of voicing those thoughts, because an Anassa ought to want for peace, you ask, “You are asking me?”

“I listen to you, do I not?” Ivar replies, voice low. You feel your hair over your ear moving as he breathes, and the way you can feel him so close to you his warmth chases the cold off your bones should unsettle you, but it doesn’t. In all his rage, in all his darkness, you find yourself thinking of him as something solid and warm to lean against. You could swear Ivar’s nose nuzzles at the crown of your head before he whispers, his Greek still rough but the words denote practice, making pride flare within you as he speaks, “ _My gift to you_.”

Leaning back so you can look into his eyes, you reply in Greek as well, although you speak slowly so he can understand with no problem, “ _Is this an apology?_ ”

He shrugs, and returns his eyes ahead, silently commanding you to do the same.

Leave it to Ivar the Boneless to apologize for hurting you by offering you twenty chained Christians.

Leave it to you to actually accept it.

Some of them don’t look at you, gazes on the ground or dead ahead, some looking at the King. One of them, though, one of them keeps dark eyes on you with determination and more than a hint of hate.

And you recognize him.

Leofric.

_“Why ought we to listen to them?” The man with the dark beard asks in a thunder. You and Narses share a smile as your eyes meet across the table._

_“They are our allies, Lord Bishop,” Stithulf answers without hesitation, but you can hear the weariness in his voice. “If we want to strike back against those barbarians, we need their aid.”_

_“Have they converted? Sworn themselves to Christ and the Holy Father?” The other man insists, and this does make you laugh. Here you are, surrounded by foreign words and weapons, and the Christians remain the same breed as of those you find in Constantinople, in Antioch…in Eleusis._

_Around your mocking laugh, you ask, “Have you pledged your worship to our Gods, sir?”_

_“Shut your mouth, you…” His words die, although his eyes remain wide and furious as they gaze at you._

_“‘Heathen?’” Sieghild offers from her place at the back of the tent, mirth and venom clear in the shieldmaiden’s voice._

“I remember you.” You whisper, keeping your eyes on him as you take in his disheveled form.

The realization of who exactly these soldiers are, who they answer to, drops a weight in your chest.

“And I you, heathen.” Leofric spits back, and you allow yourself a small smile at the title. You could swear you hear Ivar breathe a laugh by your ear as well.

You look up at Ivar’s profile and answer his previous question, “Keep him alive. He was Stithulf’s right hand man, he has to know something.”

One single question plays in your head like a mantra: _Why is Leofric here?_

Stithulf trusted the Bishop -Priest? Cleric? You still can’t tell the difference-, even if their motivations for fighting this war were very disparate. Leofric was the rallying voice of those that fought in the name of their God instead of Stithulf’s vengeance, and you cannot help but wonder why Stithulf would relinquish him.

Shortly after Ivar and his brother returned from Dublin, he told you of how they were sending scouts to test at Kattegat’s frontier, to taunt the King into action.

Sending Leofric is not a taunt, it’s…defeat.

It should be, it should make you feel they’re playing their last cards, swinging in the darkness. But it only makes you feel a pit of dread in your stomach.

If Stithulf gives up his second in command, either someone has taken his place or Leofric had -has?- a purpose to fulfill here.

The chains rattle and so does the Saxon’s voice, “I will tell none of you anything.”

“They all say that,” Ivar murmurs darkly, and something within you clings to that tone in his voice, to that dangerous and lethal edge. When he lowers his gaze to you, he finds you already looking at him. His hand lowers from your shoulder and grips at the side of your waist. “What should we do with the others?”

You hear more than one of the men utter a word in the language of those men from England, a word you know well, a word the Christians back in Attica knew and brandished. A word they used a lot, even as they ordered the death of your people.

Mercy.

You wish you could find it in yourself to be merciful, to ask Ivar to spare them.

But you can’t. You have been angry, revengeful, for too long now to pretend you want to be virtuous and believe in their humanity even if they don’t believe in yours, to pretend you don’t want their blood to wash off the one of your countrymen from your own hands.

You return your eyes to the chained men, and the answer is terrifyingly simple.

“Kill them all.”

The warriors don’t wait for a confirmation from your husband, don’t give him the last word as to what these Christians’ fate will be. They let out a few pleased chuckles, more than one murmurs a word or two, and they move closer.

The Vikings move ahead without hesitation, weapons on their hands and teeth bared in bloodthirsty smiles, surrounding the chained Saxons. The only executions you watched were the ones of the Attics at the hands of Byzantines, or a few thieves or murderers killed in the Silk Roads.

You feel Ivar’s hand tighten over your waist, and you cannot help to think that he expects you to look away or try to run. It would insult you, but you say nothing, leaning back against him a little bit more, wary of both his legs and the blood in his armor that could stain your dress.

The twenty or so Saxons die loudly, blood spilling from slit throats, severed heads, pierced hearts. The sounds that echo the loudest are those of the bodies hitting the ground with dull thumps.

You rake your eyes over the dead and the dying, to finally return to Leofric. When he looks into your eyes, not even the whispers of failing the person you ought to be could keep your lips from smiling.

For all the lives they took, for all the lives he took, a few dozen don’t seem like enough. But it is a start.

It is with a snarl that the chained Christian spits at your feet. Again, thinking a gesture or a word is enough to keep you subdued. They carry him away quickly enough, and after Ivar dedicates simple but carrying words to their people, you follow the King into the longhouse.

He doesn’t stop in the main hall, and instead you follow familiar paths to your quarters. Barking orders to his servants, Ivar motions for you to take a seat as he walks past the bed and the table with seats and to where, you presume, he will wash off the blood.

The thralls that are not aiding him are quick to put some light food on the table before you, and you thank their attention with a smile. Entertaining yourself nibbling on a piece of ginger bread, you ask Ivar about how and where he found these Saxons under Leofric’s command.

He hesitates to answer for a moment, but he then explains that his sentinels saw movement by the woods, and a small scout group confirmed Leofric was testing the waters of Kattegat’s defenses.

He finishes his explanation about intercepting them on their way back earlier today as he limps back to the place in his room where you sit. Watching Ivar take a seat on one of the lounges, you narrow your eyes and cannot keep yourself from asking,

“Having those Saxons executed in front of me; it was a test, wasn’t it?”

Ivar smiles, fingers by his mouth, “What kind of test?”

“A test to see if I would squirm at the sight of Christians dying.” You reply without hesitation, pouring yourself mead from the pitcher the thralls brought.

“Can you blame me for my curiosity?” Ivar taunts, “Although you proved to be more than just that, you seem to be…soft.”

“ _Soft_ ,” You repeat with a scoff, “There’s nothing wrong being soft towards those that deserve it.”

“Look where it has gotten you.” Ivar replies easily, but you shake your head.

“Compassion does not mean weakness, Ivar. Nor does gentleness.”

“Gentleness doesn’t win battles.”

“It can end wars.” You supply instead, sly smile on your lips.

“Is gentleness what you’ll end your war against Stithulf with?” He asks, the knowing smile you’ve come to begrudgingly adore set firmly on his lips.

You choose not to answer, pointedly picking at a piece of bread to give you an excuse for remaining silent.

“You heard those Christians ask me for mercy, didn’t you?” You inquire after a moment of silence, sobering the conversation. Ivar nods, but says nothing, forcing you to continue. “If I had asked you to, would you have spared them?”

He considers you without saying a thing, the familiar tell in his jaw that speaks of gritted teeth at being put on the spot.

He brings the goblet to his lips and drinks deeply before answering.

“I told you, maybe you inspire mercy in me,” He lifts a finger from his cup to point towards you, “But you have no interest in mercy, do you?”

You shake your head, “Not towards men like them. After all they took from me, after-…they burned me alive in the name of mercy, you know. Mercy for my soul, or something like that. I will give them the same mercy they have given me.”

“Then why not fight? Your mother could have turned you into a mighty shieldmaiden.”

“Because there’s nothing these men fear more than a _heathen witch,_ ” _You_ cannot keep the short, hoarse laugh that leaves your lips, “Having them die thinking I can take their souls with me to Hades…it is a much greater reward than wielding a sword.

Your voice is rough, like the dust of ages spent pretending it was all flowers and warmth makes your throat ache as the memories, the truths, pour out of your lips.

“Stithulf is smarter than that. He didn’t fear me, not because of my Gods, or my ways. I could never make him clutch his cross, or make that weird gesture,” You mock it with a flourish, your hand making a poor attempt of the cross. Your gaze is lost to the nothing in front of you as you recall, “But that day you took me prisoner…I saw the fear in his eyes, for the first time. He knows even in death I’ll find him.”

When you return your eyes away from the burning fire and back to the King you find his attention focused solely on you, like he clings to each and every word that leaves your mouth. His lips are slightly parted, his eyes starving, his body leaning towards you.

“What you said in Greek, that was your vow,” Ivar says hoarsely, and you nod even if he already knows the answer. “And what would you be willing to do, to _sacrifice_ , to have him in your reach?”

You shrug, because admitting that the answer is _anything_ hurts too much, reminding you of your people’s hopes and desires. Reminding you of who the Priestess they followed was, even if she died amongst flames lit by her own childhood friends.

So, you answer, “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Ivar leans forward, and insists, “Your kingdom, would you give it up?”

“He sent the people I have known and loved my whole life to die,” You answer fiercely, frown marring your features and your heart crying names: _Galla, Narses_. “I do not care for a piece of land if those people that should be in it are not avenged, if their blood spilled is not payed forth with his.”

_“We are leaving when the moon is high in the skies.” The old woman says, taking a seat at your side in the marbled steps. You keep your eyes ahead._

_“May the Gods be with you, Revered Elder.” You answer stiffly._

_She saw your mother fight, she saw your mother burn. And you know she refuses, after being witness to your own fight, to see you burn as well._

_You cannot blame her, but you cannot turn your back to your Gods either._

_“You could come with us.”_

_“I could,” You say simply, but stand up and walk to the railings of the balcony, overlooking the roads that in no time will be shaken by the marching feet and the unrelenting cavalry of the Byzantine soldiers. “But most don’t get to choose where and when to die. I am to die surrounded by my Gods, and my blood and my ashes shall enrich the earth of my home. What more could I ask for?”_

_“You could ask for_ life _, for children, for happiness, for…” Her voice dies. She remembers the life before the Emperor’s allegiance with the Christian clergy, when your Gods were with you in your hearts and in your festivals, in your homes and in your temples. And you know the shackles burn all the more when you have tasted liberty._

 _“Freedom?” You offer with a bitter smile, pulling out of the pocket in your cloak the cross one of the Christian Priests gave you, trying to lure you, convince you, into his faith, into his_ peace _. Your fingers toy with the cross as your eyes study it. Your mother, your friends, your people carried symbols like this, charms like this. But they weren’t the right ones, it seemed._

_Turning your eyes back to the horizon, you accept with tears in your eyes and a knot in your throat the kiss the Elder presses on the crown of your head, wrinkled hand wrapping around yours over the railing and squeezing tightly as a silent farewell._

After a while spent in silence, even if the King’s Greek Fire-like eyes stay on you like who wants to see past everything that makes you a lie and see the darkness underneath; you relax on your seat, head resting on your hand as you voice your thoughts,

“I’m going to ask you the same question you asked me: what would _you_ be willing to do to achieve your revenge against Lagertha?”

His answer comes in a heartbeat, not even an ounce of hesitation his voice, “Anything.”

“Even if it meant going against your brothers?” You ask quietly, as not to disturb the strange calm that settled upon the room. “I don’t mean Björn. I mean the sons of Aslaug.”

The King stands up, walking to the opened window and standing by the railing. You let your eyes roam over his broad back and strong arms as tension coils around his body.

“They will not be my brothers if they are in my way,” Ivar confesses callously. You say nothing in response, because there’s nothing you can say to a promise of killing his own brothers if it comes to it. So, after a few moments, the Viking speaks again, this time less brutal, less certain, “Before we took Kattegat from Lagertha, I was to kill Ubbe.”

_Hivtserk’s conflicted expression as he confesses, “I risked it all to stand by his side when Ubbe almost turned his back on him, Odin knows if there’s a reason why our brother is not with Lagertha wherever she has run off to now is because of me.”_

“But you didn’t have to.” You offer quietly, standing up but stopping in your place at the errant thought that whatever he is to say, whatever is making him so…unpredictable will not hold if you are to show your face, if you are to get close enough that he remembers you are here.

“No. Hvtiserk, he…he turned on Ubbe, took my side. He made our brother remain with us,” The words would almost sound awed if it wasn’t for the mistrust, the apprehension, clinging to every syllable and making his voice drip with stubborn uncertainty. Ivar huffs a breath, “I underestimated him.”

And because the day you shut your mouth may be the day Hera comes from the very Olympus to sew it closed, you say, “Like people did to you.”

“They still do.” He argues instantly, the bitterness you have come to expect and almost understand returning to his tone.

“And you still underestimate your brother.”

“Why do you care so much about him, hm?” Ivar barks back. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, because even if he would not see you, you want to pretend you have patience.

“Because he is a good man, and you both care for each other,” You fire back, walking a few steps forward and staying by the doorway to the balcony, looking at his back but close enough that you can hear the creaking of wood under his hands. Voice barely above a whisper, you ask him, “Waging war against your family, is that what your mother would have wanted? Or your father?” If he were any other man, you would say the way his head drops a little, as if hanging between his shoulders, would be in shame, or regret. After a breath of silence you ask, “Would your Gods ask you to spill the blood of your own kin to fulfill your vow?”

He says nothing else, and for a moment you believe he chooses to ignore your words, to dismiss your questions. But when you walk quietly to his side and his gaze remains stubbornly on the horizon before you, you take a moment to study his profile.

You are surprised and a pang of pain travels through your heart when you catch sight of the tremble in his furrowed brows, the tightly pressed lips, the sharp and uneven breaths entering and leaving his body.

And because you never knew when to count your wins and losses, because you never ceased to be the wide-eyed child that would get lost in the woods chasing after birds or following trails of pretty flowers, you stand at his side, your shoulder touching his arm and your hand a breath away from his.

Because you cannot fathom the fragility in his expression, the conflict coiled around his whole body, going uncomforted, you make another stupid choice.

Ever since you were a child, way before fire and death reached Attica, you were always one to show affection through touch. Even after you were forced into exile, even after your return was faced with oppression and fear, even after almost two years with healing scars and darkness in your heart; you still remained the same.

Sieghild always took issue with it, when you were travelling the Silk Roads she would lose sight of you only to find you had surrounded yourself with Arab girls, laughing and talking with them as you traced the jewels and marks on their skin with fascination; or when you were venturing into Francia she would very pointedly tug at the hood of your cloak and keep you back when you managed a good shot during a hunt and would jump to hug one of the mercenaries you were traveling alongside of.

After the Saxons, though…things changed. You had given up the control over what your people did to Narses without even meaning to, suffocated by being a ruler with no path, no land, no army; and when Narses decided to follow Stithulf to Scandinavia you started growing cold.

In part because of the looks the Christians would send you when they found your uncovered skin, your loud laughs, your easy embraces with the elders, with Galla, with your mother. In part because you found yourself unmoored and fighting against men that would sooner have you killed than heard; and being carefree felt like a fault to the person you ought to be.

But here, in this city of cold and rust, no one knows you. No one sees in you an Anassa, a Hiereia, a Daughter. No one sees in you what you ought to be instead of what you are.

Which is why you reach out and take his hand. It is warm and callous against your skin, but the touch sends a spark of hope, of _something_ to your heart.

To you it is natural, a gesture of comfort, a show of the gentleness you have kept alive like a stubborn flame against this world of war and death. To him, you think, is none of that at all.

Ivar startles at your touch with so little care for the mask he usually wears that for a few moments, when your eyes meet his you can see the man underneath the cruel second skin made out of scars, hatred, anguish.

For a moment you wonder if you should pull away, if you crossed a limit and this could only lead to a path of wrong; but you decide against it, decide to quieten those thoughts. You smile.

Uncertain blue eyes jump between yours, trying to read what is all open for him to see in your own gaze. His hand is frozen underneath your touch, you think his whole body is coiled tight and unmoving, but you still don’t let go. You fear damage you couldn’t even fathom could be done if you pull back now.

So, you lean closer to him, adjusting your grip and trying silently so that the Viking releases the tension in his hand, loosens his tightly clasped fingers.

And for a few moments you wait with baited breath, even though you try to pretend not to, hoping to get open fingers, a vulnerable palm to rest your own against. Finally, Ivar’s fingers loosen their hold on the railing and slowly, meticulously, like who offers a wounded animal a piece of food -even if you don’t feel like the one wild, the one fearful here and now- turns his hand around, fingers spread and facing the stars, and choice yours to pull away or not.

You don’t. Your palm meets his, your fingers clasp tight as the intertwine with his own. And after a heartbeat, he returns the tight, hopeful hold.

Keeping your eyes on his, ignoring the thousand questions written in them, ignoring the instinctive tightening of his hand on yours, you press a soft kiss on his shoulder, before whispering,

“Find a way or make one, but you will always have a choice.”


	28. Chapter 28

Ivar tells you on the morning that tonight the plan on what to do with the information scouts -and Ubbe’s pointless trip North- have provided will be discussed. He never asks you to be there, or tells you to, or even hints at you having permission to; but he doesn’t have to.

You meet with him outside, and walk together to the spacious room where the tables for the men are always set with food and drink, it seems. As soon as you both walk in, Ubbe speaks out from his place at the table, calling his brother’s name.

“I had some of our spies monitor the situation, it seems you and your wit-…and Y/N were right. Stithulf’s forces move for Strepshire with sureness now.” Ubbe states as Ivar takes a seat.

Ivar accepts his words with a proud, almost arrogant smile on his lips, and nods his head in acknowledgement of his older brother’s words. Before resting his crutch on the table, Ivar uses it to push back the chair at his side, motioning for you. You take the seat and smile your greetings to Hvitserk and the others.

The older Prince continues, “I will take responsibility of the ambush, we will cut down their numbers.”

Ivar agrees silently, a practiced ease in the brothers’ interactions telling you these are not the first times they behave like equals when waging war. You can only hope this lasts.

“Prince Ubbe,” You speak out hesitantly, and when the older man looks at you with hardness and distrust, you try telling yourself you feel a courage you don’t really have, “Stithulf has Arab mercenaries in his camp. I know their ways of war. Their army is feared in my homeland, they use tricks and their own dead so that when the time comes, their champions can…kill easily.”

One of the warriors at the table laughs at your words, and it is only then that you realize your conversation with the Prince was not as private as you thought.

“Vikings don’t die easily, my Queen.” The man boasts, answered with a few raised cups and answering chuckles.

Suddenly aware of so many eyes upon you, you tighten your hands into fists under the table and swallow past a dry mouth, but still insist to the Prince,

“You have seen them fight, Ubbe. If there’s a reason the Saxons held the siege on Dublin for as long as they did is because they counted on Arab and Greek forces making them unpredictable. They no longer have the Greeks, but don’t underestimate the Arabs, Stithulf will still count on them to face you and your warriors.”

After a few moments of silence, the Prince nods, and drinks deeply from his cup before saying, “I said I would value your counsel, and I will,” Ubbe lifts the cup to you in recognition, “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , Ubbe.” You say around a small smile, nervousness taking over you once a brief silence settles over the men and women around you.

“How far from Strepshire do your spies say the Saxons are now?” Ivar asks his brother, and when Ubbe replies with certain words about the paths taken and the travel times, Ivar nods resolutely, turning to the rest of the table when speaking again, “We must move for Strepshire then, raid the city while the Saxons are focused on Ubbe and his men, so that they can’t aid each other.”

“Attacking that city would leave us vulnerable, my King. Too many were lost, it won’t be victory if we lose more.” One of their men quips, tattooed hands wrapped around a leg of lamb.

“If the Saxon army takes over it won’t be a victory either.” The King argues, his temper rising a bit. The man argues firmly against this, even if a with a bit of fear and the tension of someone that expects an explosion of rage or something else, but soon enough his attention is on another man that starts debating him.

Making use of the conversations that start, you lean closer to Ivar, calling for his attention silently by putting your hand over his.

Ivar turns to you without hesitation, eyes on yours in an instant, and it makes a small smile pull at your lips. He turns his hand around and traps yours before you can pull away though, and that simple action makes you lose your breath for a moment.

A murmur of your name on his lips brings your focus back to the present matters at hand, and leaning closer you argue quietly,

“Stithulf wants _you_ , more than anything. You know this.”

You hope he can see what you mean: _Don’t be a reckless idiot, please._

He offers you a smile, his eyes like Greek Fire igniting yours and his voice just as quiet as he says, “Don’t get your hopes up, wife. Better men have tried to kill me and failed.”

Hvitserk calls forth attention by leaning towards his brother and calling his name; and even past the distance the table where you dine puts between the brothers his focus remains solely on Ivar.

His eyes are firm, his tone certain, when he says,

“Give me two weeks. Ubbe will find him and keep him occupied. He cannot get to Strepshire or call for aid in that time. Two weeks, Ivar.”

There’s something in the certainty with which Hvitserk talks that makes you think he already knows something, he already has more than half a plan. Your eyes jump between him and Ivar, and you think the whole table is holding its breath waiting for the answer as well.

But the King argues swiftly, gesturing with the hand not on yours, “What do you want time for? We have been watching from afar for way too long.”

“Trust me on this matter.” The Prince beseeches, even if his voice is strong and unwavering.

You hold your breath, your heart beating and breaking for the two brothers and hoping by grace of your Gods and theirs that Ivar agrees, that he recognizes his brother’s smarts not only to you in secret, or to himself alone, but to the man that loves him and will stand by his side past everything.

Whatever breached the brothers before Ivar got to the throne has partly healed, you see it in the cautious ways they move around each other, uncertain on where they stand. But they still struggle. For recognition, for dominance, for victory, you don’t know. You do know Hvitserk is a good man, a good brother, and he deserves to hear praise, he deserves to feel valued; and that he wants for Ivar to recognize his sacrifice like little else.

You are certain Ivar can feel your gaze on him, and in his profile you see the conflict, the reluctance to relent on this secret war he wages with everyone -especially his brothers- as to feel equal to them. After a few breaths of tense and defining silence, you hear,

“Fine. Two weeks, brother.” Ivar grits out, eyes set firmly on his brother, and you cannot keep your smile from blossoming, wide and stupid. Almost immediately you feel Ivar’s fingers pinch at the back of your hand, a silent command to school your features.

You do, but not before squeezing tightly at his hand in yours. A thanks in behalf of his brother, a recognition of what he did means to all three sons of Ragnar, a promise of how proud you are.

You let go quickly enough, and reach for the goblet of mead, drinking deeply and sharing a smile with Hvitserk across the table, who still looks a little stunned.

The discussion dies shortly after, but even if the spirits of the warriors here are quieter, calmer; you don’t need the guidance of the Gods to see Ivar’s impatience and stubbornness bubbling underneath his skin.

As his brothers and the warriors leave the hall, instead of returning to your rooms you decide to remain with the King for a while longer.

Walking in silence to the chair where the Viking sits, you give yourself courage and lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Annoying, is it not?” You ask, a smile teasing at your lips. Ivar turns his head to look up at you. You still delight yourself in the softness that seems to take over his features when he focuses on you.

“What is?” He asks, quietly.

“Being forced to listen to voices other than your own.” You tease, breathing a laugh when he acknowledges your joke at his expense with the grimace of a purposely fake smile.

“You think yourself funny.” He grumbles, gaze back on the burning embers by one of the doors.

“Enough to get you not to be so angry, yes.” You dare venture, ignoring the rush of warmth that flows from your hand all the way to your chest when Ivar places rough fingers over your hand on his shoulder.

“You make me angry all the time.” He argues, the softness in his voice betraying the intended bite. With his hand holding yours, you catch a moment of hesitation before he brings your hand to his mouth and carefully, cautiously, breathes a kiss over the back of your hand.

Warmth fills your chest as you find yourself catching more and more glimpses of the almost shy, uncertain but captivated man beneath the mantle of the Viking King.

“But it’s the good kind of angry, isn’t it?” You ask, bending at the waist and leaning closer to his profile with what you know is an annoyingly satisfied grin.

The Viking simply scoffs in response, “You are insufferable.”

“I have been told that before.” You offer in response, your smile growing softer when he gives your hand a soft squeeze before letting go.

You are almost to the doors when Ivar calls your name. Still not used to the thrill of hearing it in his voice, with his accent, you turn around and face him.

He doesn’t look at you, but you see his profile, drawn tight and tense. It makes worry settle at the pit of your stomach.

“What can I do for you?” You ask quietly, wanting to walk closer but feeling unsure.

“Stay.” Ivar bites out, his voice almost strangled and the request sounding like a command. Still, you know it means quite a lot for him to ask something out of you, so you walk closer.

“Of course.”

“Don’t do it because I told you to.” He growls, his head moving with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Again he goes with the explosive vitriol, with thinking too much and growing more and more furious through nothing but his thoughts. You still walk to his side and sit on the chair next to his.

“I’m not. I…like spending time with you. When you are not set on driving me mad, that is.” You offer finally, sharing a smile with him and feeling lighter than you have in years.

Ivar sobers after a moment of silence, and his expression back to being tense, serious, you would dare say troubled as you settle on the seat. This time, you say nothing, waiting for him to speak.

“You are…you don’t have any reason to lie to me,” Ivar grumbles, convincing you both it seems. His fingers go back at staying by his mouth, a nervous gesture born out of not knowing what to do with his hands, you think. There’s reluctant fondness in Ivar’s voice when he speaks next, “And if there’s one woman I have known to not be able to keep her mouth shut, is you.”

“My best and worst quality.” You smile.

When the youngest son of Aslaug turns his eyes back to you, you are starkly reminded of the night you became his wife.

_Careful steps bring you closer to him, and his eyes are scared and hopeful and longing and so many things as they search yours. ‘Kiss me’, he had whispered, and you have no doubt it was a surrender._

“I can give you anything you want, if you ask,” He promises, voice low and beseeching. His nose furrows, his teeth bare in a snarl, barely a second but it is still there, his fury at being seen as human, at being vulnerable. Ivar’s eyes burn as they gaze at you when he says, “But never lie to me, never turn your back to me.”

You consider his words in silence, feeling strangely like an oath is being asked out of you, a vow.

“I want the same thing I give,” You state, resolute. “If I give you honesty, I want the same. If you give me trust, I will…give the same.

You don’t fear what it would make out of you to be loyal to Ivar, to pledge to stand by his side, because, vow or no vow, it is exactly what you’ve been doing for a long time now. No, it is not a question of whether or not you can trust him. It is whether he can, whether he can agree to the honesty that comes with friendship, the vulnerability that comes with loyalty.

So, with a quiet voice, you ask, “Do I have your trust, Ivar?”

“You do. Do I have yours?”

It doesn’t feel like he is asking about trust at all, and judging by the hint of fear, hint of _something_ , that shines in Ivar’s pale eyes; you think he thinks that too.

Still, you offer a smile, faint and tremulous.

“Since the beginning,” You confess, and at the slight surprise that lifts his brows you shrug. “I have always had a soft heart, after all.”


	29. Chapter 29

You never would have thought your husband to be one for repetition, for predictability.

But he’s been following the same pattern with the knife in his hand for a while now. The knife embedded on the wood of the table and quickly snatched back, one, two times. He spins the round-handled knife on his finger three times. Back to the table.

“That sound is maddening.” You quip, because you cannot help yourself.

“You still have the one I gave you, don’t you?” Ivar asks, and yet doesn’t stop the infuriating pattern. Knife on wood, knife on wood, one, two, three spins.

“Of course I do,” You reply after a moment, slightly affronted. You know it is foolish sentimentality, it was from the beginning, but you wouldn’t lose something that was gifted to you. “It was a gift.”

“Stithulf still bears the scar,” He comments, faint smile on his lips, what looks like pride curving his mouth. “You earned it.”

_The Völva’s eyes set on you even if she pretends to be focused elsewhere, a knowing smile, the smile of someone that knows the ways of the Gods, curving her lips, “Every gift comes after dedication.”_

“Every gift is earned.” You retort easily, but a part of you is still trying to venture past that strange fog of otherworldliness that clings to the wise woman’s words in your memories.

Another repetition. And another. You are in half a mind to say something, but instead you put your hand over his, stopping the movement and making his eyes meet your own.

A small smile, a movement of your wrist, and you make him drop his hold on the knife in exchange for holding your hand.

You only say his name, quietly, calmly, and wait for him to speak.

“Strepshire.” Is all Ivar says, and you frown.

His eyes are set stubbornly on the wooden table before him, and his hand twitches under the hold of yours, the pull to reach for the knife, to return to the maddening repetition obvious.

The knowledge that it was a nervous gesture combined with his tense stance makes you realize whatever nonchalance Ivar has about himself right now is but a lie.

“Yes?” You ask, quietly even if you are alone. This is the first time he has spoken of war or strategy with you outside of the room where he and his soldiers meet, so you cannot help it when your mind starts searching frantically for an answer as to why.

“Ubbe will leave soon to intercept Stithulf’s path to the city, but it seems…” He grimaces for a moment, a furrow in his nose, a press of his lips into a line, “ _convenient_ that he moves so carelessly now that he looks certain we are not coming after him directly.” The words are rough, like they are pulled from his lips painfully, one by one. It makes you wonder when was the last time Ivar went to someone that wasn’t one of his brothers for counsel, or the last time he had someone to listen to him.

“You think he is one step ahead, that there’s paths he can take that would leave your brother’s forces vulnerable. Like the paths you took when leading the Great Army through Wessex.” You finish, offering him a small smile when his surprised gaze lifts to meet yours.

“You studied our strategies?” He says, but he is not angry, nor irritated. You could almost swear he is proud.

You shrug in response.

“You interest me,” You say, and after a moment of enjoying the rare almost genuine smile that teases at his lips, you rest your arm on the table, your chin in your hand and ready yourself to listen. “So, tell me.”

He does.

Ivar tells you of what he thinks the Saxons may try to do, of what he would do in their place. He tells you of the countless ways his mind conjures up to take the city if he were in Stithulf’s place, ways he believes the Saxon can think of and move before he can react.

He talks and you listen, for so long that the moon makes quite a trek across the skies and Ivar’s voice grows a little hoarse.

“We need to move for that city. It is bad enough the Saxons have footing so close to our land,” Ivar growls, hand tightening over yours and controlled ire in his voice, “If they manage to get the kind of army Stithulf has in past those walls…”

“It begs for an invasion,” You finish for him, nodding, “And yet even if time is crucial, you agreed to give Hvitserk those two weeks to try for an advantage.” You point out quietly, eyes searching his. Ivar merely shrugs his shoulders and furrows his lips in response.

“I know my brother. He is up to something.”

Quietly, you say, “You did good by him earlier. He is very loyal to you, Ivar, and he loves you,” It is a very minuscule change that your words bring forth in the King, but you still notice the compulsive frown of his brows, the almost unwilling tightening of his mouth into a line. So, you ask, “You doubt it?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but remains otherwise still under your touch. There’s a grimace in his face that is to speak for nonchalance, but there’s a hint of something real and untapped in his pale eyes.

“None of the people here love me,” He explains simply, causing a frown to mar your features. After a breath of silence, Ivar cocks his head to the side and starts again, “You were the leader of the Greeks. They loved you, didn’t they?”

You take your hand from his, crossing your arms over your chest before you acquiesce with a nod, “My people loved me, yes. But you haven’t been King for long, it may take time. The people here can grow to love you.”

He insists with a shake of his head, gaze far away and a combination of desperation and despair taking over his expression.

“These people have known me since my birth,” Ivar explains, and beneath his words lies a special kind of anger, an anger maybe just his, an anger born out of years on end of pain and uncertainty, “I spent most of my life crawling around in the dirt, having to look up at everyone, like I was always kneeling in front of them. And even if I’m King now, they all see less than a man in me. What kind of Viking cannot even walk properly?”

You look into his pale eyes, a thousand insecurities, a thousand furies, a thousand pains written in them; and you cannot help the pang of protectiveness that takes over you.

A man almost double your size, who delights himself in death and suffering, who could kill you before you even knew it. But still, like you saw in those first few weeks, a man that hid under a cruel second skin made out of the scars of his past, a man that sometimes looks like he wants to give but does not know how to do anything but take.

And the part of you that is gentle and soft makes you want to hold each and every fragile part of him tight, to make him believe what you already know when you look at him; and the part of you that you shouldn’t allow to breathe whispers that he ought to make them pay for the mistake of underestimating him, with iron and blood.

Instead of giving voice to either, you offer, “You conquered regardless, it shouldn’t matter.”

“But it does matter!” Ivar exclaims, standing up from the table fast enough that the chair scratches against the wood of the floor. His stance falters at the quick movement, forcing him to steady himself with the hand on the table. He turns his back to you, but you still hear the waver in his words when he continues, low and almost manic, “You weren’t here, you…you don’t know. I’m nothing without these damn things, and none of the people here will forget it, no matter what I do. They will never see me as n-normal; they won’t see anything other than the useless cripple.”

His last words leave his lips like a snarl, and it is with a growl that he angrily throws the crutch at his side away from him. He still stands, his braces allow him to do so, and you watch frozen in place as his shoulders rise and fall with quick, livid breaths.

You stand up as well, heart beating in your ears and breaking in your chest, and although you want to approach him you hesitate to do so.

Instead, you try quietly, “Ivar…”

When he turns to face you, he looks lost, his pale eyes wide. Like long ago, he seems staggered at what he just voiced, taken aback by the vulnerability he showed once it is too late to keep you from being a witness to it.

And, like before, you only step closer, keeping your gaze on his and trying to stand strong against the storm that are him and his thoughts.

After a breath of hesitation, Ivar whispers, “I want to be like them, I-I want the people of Kattegat to love me, like they love Ubbe, like they once loved father,” His brow furrows and rises simultaneously, a futile attempt to recover the mask, and his glistening eyes look away from yours when he huffs a breath and breathes, “But they…they never will, will they? No one will ever see anything other than a half-man when they look at me,” The anger returns to his tone, and his lips curve once again into the familiar snarl, “I’d rather have them fear me.”

You remain silent for a few moments, trying to think on what to say, how to approach him. Were he any other man, were you not so unmoored by him and his warmth, were you stronger; and you would cross the distance between you, wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest, offer him the support, the comfort, he craves.

“My father was Spartan, a people much like yours, valuing warfare like no others,” You start quietly, toying with the amulet at your neck, the one he gifted your mother. “He used to say when a leader is loved, the enemy may only come from outside; while if one is feared or hated, the enemies will be both foreign and the people at his side.”

Ivar grunts in response, face twisted in a snarl for a moment as he looks away.

“I know how to deal with enemies.” He grits out at the end, and you hear the words he doesn’t say: _I don’t know how to deal with a people that loves me._

And you should have known before, you realize. He chose to make you his wife against your own wishes, risking your scorn, your hate, because asking you to stay would mean he’d be left vulnerable to rejection. He chose to have you as an enemy at his side than to ask for you to be a wife, because for him it is easier to deal with enemies, to fight and be cruel, than it is to deal with allies, to trust and love.

The part of you kept alive like a powerful yet powerless sapling fighting against the strength of winter, that part that is trusting and gentle and kind, that part that is foolish and catches you admiring him with a stupid smile when he is not looking…that part wants to go to him, to take his face between your palms and…

But you can’t, so you walk to the abandoned crutch on the floor by one of the tables, and with more sureness in your steps than you feel, you approach the Viking, who watched your every move with intensity behind his gaze and now eyes you warily.

“Let them see you.” You state, extending your hand and offering him the crutch again. Ivar clenches his jaw, nose furrowed in the beginning of a snarl, and his eyes never stray from yours.

“What are you on about, woman?” He growls, but you refuse to back down, and move your hand again, bringing attention to the object you hold.

“You want them to love you, you want to show them you are more than what they think you are,” You say with no little certainty. Being hated is easy for a man like him, and it is not what he wants, you are sure. When Ivar still won’t take the crutch back in his hand, you grab his hand yourself and put his fingers over the worn wood. He tenses up, if at your touch or the reminder, you don’t know, but he still remains silent, eyes on yours. Even if angry, even if guarded, you see in his pale gaze that he listens. He always does, even when he pretends he doesn’t. With determination, you whisper, “Show them. It is not a weakness and they will not see it a such when you prove to them of such. The same will, the same determination, the same intellect that went into achieving all you have achieved; turn that into deeds for yo-… _our_ people.”

“I am King, I will not grovel before them.” Ivar grows back, shaking his head.

You have a feeling that, King or not, he would not grovel for anything or before anyone. Still, you offer your advice,

“You won’t have to. Just…rule _for_ them, not over them. There’s no secret,” You answer around a smile, because even if you have no idea how to be the Anassa your people want you to be, you know how you earned their love and admiration. Your voice is almost a whisper, and you hope he sees you don’t mean just in matters of ruling when you say, “But one cannot get without giving in return.”

You offer a barely-there shrug of your shoulders when he remains silent, looking up into his eyes.

“You have answers to everything, don’t you?” He quips, a hint of genuine irritation in his voice that only makes your stupid heart grow fonder.

“Oh, no. I just improvise with good results,” You laugh quietly, one of your hands treacherously going up and toying with one of the buckles of the armor on his chest, “I believe in you, Ivar, I know you can do anything you set your mind to. I-If I can, I want to be by your side when you do.”

He leans, maybe sways, maybe stumbles, closer to you, towering over you with soft eyes. Ivar’s mouth curves slightly, almost miraculously, on a small, genuine smile.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think the Gods sent you to me.”

You have never seen his expression as soft as it is now as he gazes at you, lips curved and slightly parted, a little bit of color in his ears and the top of his cheeks, eyes so unbearably open and vulnerable.

You lift your hand from its place by his heart, and in the brief moment you can pretend there’s not a world past him, you allow your fingers to trace the side of his face, to stop on the scar on his cheekbone that you’ve been drawn to since that first day.

You both pretend not to notice Ivar jump slightly at your touch, just like you both pretend your eyes don’t threaten to flutter shut when he presses his brow against yours.

His expression sends a pang of fear, and excitement, and…something to your heart, and you wish you could be brave and do what your heart begs you to, but instead you lift your eyebrows in sardonic question.

“With all the ways we drive each other mad, you think the Gods fated this?” You ask around a smile of your own, genuine and a little scared, because you cannot help it.

Ivar shrugs in response, blinking slowly, “I have heard stranger tales.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just an fyi, (I haven’t done these in a while, damn): Falcons are symbols of Freyja, who has stories referring to how she cries tears of gold at the absence of her husband from her side. Bats are symbols of Persephone, and in my canon I’ve always portrayed her as a woman of dark skin and blind eyes. Oh, and snakes are symbols of Hades.

_The air around you is strange, a mix of warm and cold that doesn’t quite manage to be lukewarm, each second the breeze changes from a welcoming moment in the sun to the biting winds of a coast. Even the sky looks wrong, somewhere between night and day, the sun shining brightly one moment only to turn cold and distant the next.  
_

_You can almost see the silhouette of a woman standing in the distance, and because you know you must, you walk to her._

_She extends a hand, her smile vicious but her eyes warm._

_For a moment, when you blink, the blind eyes disappear and pale eyes look back at you, crying tears that shine like gold. Her lips aren’t stained by the red tint of pomegranates and blood anymore, but she still smiles, a mother beckoning a child into her embrace._

_It is not the face you have come to know, yet she’s still familiar, and their voices when they whisper your name sound like one._

_You reach with trembling fingers, try to reach her, and for a moment you can almost feel her warmth, burning like the fire that was once all you could feel. But the moment your hand finds hers, the moment the tips of your fingers touch hers…the cackle of a falcon, the screech of a bat by your ear, and she is gone._

_All you have left is the cold that seeps into your skin and the certainty they have heard you, and answered, each and every time you’ve prayed._

A murmur of your name brings your attention to the youngest son of Ragnar, forcing you to return your attention -your mind- to the here and now, to the city that starts to wake up, to the streets you are supposed to be walking.

You answer the question written in Ivar’s eyes with a smile.

“I’m fine,” You promise quietly, “I have been having trouble sleeping, that’s all.”

“Dreams?”

“Are you to trust dreams as visions?” You ask, a little life returning to your voice as you tilt your head to the side.

“You told me yourself that your Goddess’ form appears in your dreams.” Ivar argues.

_It wasn’t just her._

You refuse to admit to the son of a Viking seeress that you have dreamt of Freyja. If by chance some of Aslaug’s gift remains with Ivar, you dread to hear him decipher the meaning behind the form you saw in your dreams. So, you keep that to yourself.

“But you do not believe in my Gods.” Is what you argue with instead.

He shrugs with his arm not on the crutch, “I believe in you.”

You stop in your tracks, stunned into silence. Your eyes are glued to Ivar’s back as he continues walking, and a tremulous smile starts lifting at your lips, aided by the fragile hope and foolish _emotion_ blossoming in your chest.

Ivar turns to you when he sees you are not coming, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly at your surprised and commoved expression.

“Don’t overreact. You were never wrong about your…dealings with your Gods before.”

Shaking off the surprise and the foolish hopes and feelings that have no place here, that cling to your mind like cobwebs, you skip the space between you, offering him a smile and a nod.

“I still appreciate the _trust_ , Ivar.” You tease, skimming bold fingers over the back of his hand, a smile on your lips.

He regards you in silence for a few moments, not walking anymore, and you see in his gaze that he ponders with himself whether to say something that’s in his mind or not.

“Let’s go eat, woman.” He finally huffs, turning his attention to the path ahead. You bite down your disappointment at him swallowing whatever his words were to be, and walk at his side.

The thralls that greet you when you enter do so with a smile, although their eyes linger on your hair for a few moments, and move cautiously about as they set the food in front of you both and take their leave.

“You keep confusing them, you know.” Ivar starts casually, already focused on his food but still demanding that you sit at his side while you eat your bread and drink your herbal tea. You have no idea how these people manage to eat so much so early in the day.

“Me?”

Sucking his fingers clean, a gesture you shouldn’t be following with your eyes the way you are, Ivar lifts his gaze to focus on you.

“You refuse to let them braid your hair unless we make a deal, you reuse that old dress every chance you have.”

“I like my hair this way.” You quip, rather obstinately.

Ivar’s eyes go to the gentle twirls and the delicate updo holding the hair away from your face, studying the style for a few moments. Finally, he shrugs in response.

You have an inkling that’s the closest you will get to receiving a compliment, so you let yourself enjoy the victory as if it were one.

“You still get cold in that dress. You keep trembling when night falls, woman, it’s annoying.” He mumbles.

“It’s…mine.” You offer as explanation, smiling down at your infusion as you watch the herbs swirl and smell the familiar scent of red clover and chickweed.

When you lift your gaze from the swirling herbs in your cup, you catch his eyes on you, but he adverts his gaze to his food once again when he speaks, “You have dresses in our room. Those are yours.”

“They are not _mine_ , they are clothes you had people bring to me.” You insist, fingers tracing the worn Byzantine thread with care.

“You can ask them to bring you the ones you like.”

“I don’t want to take it from them, they…deserve compensation.”

“Would it be better if you bought your own, then?” He offers, and even if excitement bubbles in your chest and into your lips in a small smile, you still refrain.

“I don’t have any gold.”

“I can give you all you need.” Ivar sentences, and although for a moment your mind lingers on the meaning you think he intended behind those words, you soon find yourself with a smile on your lips and only thoughts of the peplos and chlamys you had back in your home before it burned down.

It has been so long since you have had time -or coin- to make some dresses.

“I don’t want to be in your debt.” You insist, even if you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling.

Ivar regards you silently for a few moments, resting his elbows on the table between you and challenging your eyes with his, his expression asking you why you decide to be so difficult about everything. You offer a shrug in response, wondering if he sees the hypocrisy in complaining about you being difficult to deal with.

“Think of them as…gifts, then.”

“Alright.” You murmur, your gaze holding his for once not feeling like it’s a duel, but an encounter. When it is a genuine one, however rare they are, Ivar truly has a lovely smile, you realize.

When you are done with your meal and murmur your goodbyes as you prepare to head for the apothecary home, Ivar interrupts you, sly smile on his lips and a shine in his eyes that, were he to be any other man, would make you think he is _flirting_.

“I like red.”

You smile in response, bending down to press a kiss against his cheek. Ivar grumbles his way away from your affection, but the shine in his eyes, the faint color in his ears, give him away.

“Come with me to the market and I’ll see what I can do.” You offer, already knowing you are triumphant.

____

“Oh, this is fun.” You laugh, dangling your feet over the chariot’s end as you watch the ground quickly move underneath them.

Ivar grunts something in response to your enthusiasm, and you can almost tell he is exaggeratedly rolling his eyes as he faces the horse and guides it through Kattegat’s roads.

You say nothing, still beyond thankful he agreed to come to the market with you, aware as you are of how…uncomfortable he is walking around the people of Kattegat. If his words the day you witnessed first-hand what happens when his eyes get that blue tint to them are anything to go by, and you know they are; it is evident he hates the reminder, for himself and especially for others, that he is disabled.

You’ll never know what life was -is- like for him, you know you couldn’t fathom the pain, the anger, the resentment. But what you can do is try to understand him, understand his rage and his hunger.

_I spent most of my life crawling around in the dirt, having to look up at everyone, like I was always kneeling in front of them._

And again, the part of you that is soft and foolish wants nothing other than to give him the happiness, the certainty, the safety, the love some may say he does not deserve but you would gladly give freely. And the part of you that is cruel and angry wants to watch him conquer, triumph, wants to stand by his side and see the world that pushed him to the ground burn.

A voice that sounds so alike his whispers there’s no reason why only one of those things has to be possible.

Still, in your mind lingers the image of a younger Ivar, heartbroken and hopeless at the seemly inability to fight, to earn his right to Valhalla; and it sends a pang of pain through your heart.

You know the stubborn King would only call it pity if he were to know, so you keep your tone light when you say,

“Thank you for this, Ivar,” He only answers with a huffed ‘hmphf’, so you add with a side smile, “I hope you know I will ask for chariot rides way more often.”

“For the right price, I’ll give you anything you want.” Ivar finally answers, and you catch a glimpse of his blue eyes turning to you for a moment.

“Dare I ask what the price might be?”

You could swear you hear him chuckle, and before long the market is in your sights, bubbling and colorful, and your attention is stolen by the wares and chanting vendors.

As you walk eyeing every little trinket and odd curiosity, you cannot keep the nostalgic smile from your lips.

“When I was a child my mother and I used to walk markets just like this one. She…she had this tradition, bought a new dress or a new piece of jewelry each time my father was to return from a campaign.” You recall with a watery laugh, fingers caressing the hanging necklaces of colorful beads you walk by.

“Campaigns? Like raids?”

“Yes, she…she used to say it was so he would have some surprise to return to, and my father would joke it was her way of keeping him in Eleusis, a threat that if he left us too frequently she would spend all our coin on pretty things,” You answer softly, running your hand over a piece of cold blue cloth, “Our temple looks over the sea, and I would sit with her on the steps, waiting for my father’s ship to return. He used to say our smiles guided the navy home,” You laugh. The smile in your mother’s lips as the sea reflected in her burdened and yet loving eyes is brought forth in your mind, and you cannot keep the next words from stumbling out of your lips, “I think…I think those are the only times I remember her being…happy.

She fought so much, through her noble title and the title of wife of a Strategus, through her worship and her strong voice. And yet she perished amongst flames, her death cheered by her own countrymen.

The cold hand of fear grips your heart, and after being once so close to ending your tale the same way, for a moment you refuse to expose yourself to that bitter and barren end, no matter the cost.

You shake off the dark thoughts, and focus on the market and the life bubbling within it.

“I don’t think I ever said this, but Kattegat truly is beautiful, Ivar.” You offer after a while in silence, the sharp focus of his blue eyes setting on you at your words.

“My mother turned Kattegat into a trading hub, allowed the town to prosper through commerce. When I became King, I…wanted to honor that.”

“Did Queen Aslaug teach you of trade?” You ask curiously, your lips still smiling as your eyes rake over the stands of so many different colors, of the offered spices and cloths and pets. It all is beautiful, loud, and with pieces of everywhere in the known world scattered throughout.

It feels like the Silk Roads. It feels like the first home you knew.

Ivar huffs, a combination of amusement and maybe regret, “No, she didn’t. I did not care for it, but my older brothers learned from watching her rule,” He explains, and remains silent for a few moments, for so long that you think he’s not going to speak again, until he takes a deep breath, “Hvitserk has been the one dealing with commerce and foreign trade, and he has done…good for Kattegat.” He says finally, the praise towards his brother gruff and carrying the bite of rancor, like admitting the other man’s success irks him.

“You should tell him that.” You murmur as casually as you are able to, pretending to eye a display of metal bracelets.

Your fingers trace over the snakes on one of the intricate metalworks, and you are reminded of the altar in the forest of Eleusis: Persephone, sitting in her throne with a scythe, symbol of Demeter, held in her hand to demonstrate her pledge to her mother, and snakes, symbols of Hades, curled around her body as proof of her husband’s love.

“Do you like it?” Ivar asks, ignoring your previous words and looming over your back as he regards the delicate bracelet you hold. Not waiting for your answer, he motions for it and talks to the man behind the stall in his own language.

You place your touch back on the King’s arm, but this time is a call for attention, “Thank you, but I couldn’t, I don’t need it.”

But he shakes his head, lips pressed into a line, “I asked if you liked it, not if you needed it.”

“Must we argue about everything?” You sigh, exasperated as you watch him pay for the bracelet with curt words.

When he turns his gaze back to you, he does so with the arrogant and maddening smile you have learned to hate, “I don’t know. Shall we argue about that?”

You just huff in response, striding your way to a stall with bright linens and leaving him -and his bracelet- behind.

“Sure, make the cripple chase after you.” He growls, the bite in his voice paired with shame that even with your back turned to him you can sense, making you falter. A moment regret pangs at your stomach, but you will not apologize. Instead, you move to one somewhat empty passageway, so you can speak freely,

“I don’t like that word,” You grit out as you turn to watch him approach, “Rather, I don’t like how you use it.”

Ivar stands in front of one of the more secluded alleys, and you can sense the tension in his frame, the shame and despair, but say nothing about it.

He is quick to fire back, “Well, I don’t particularly like being a cripple, wife.”

“Oh, for the love of-…” You growl as the word rings in your head, and you pace away from Ivar for a moment, running a hand through your hair as you roll your eyes. When you turn back to the King, you face his angry and defensive gaze with your own, determined and fierce, “You are much more than your legs, you are what you made out of yourself past them, _because_ of them,” Shaking your head but keeping your voice down and the people from hearing, you hiss, “It would have been easy for you to wallow in pity and let the world look down upon you, but you didn’t. You are dedicated, and strong, and brilliant, and…and many more things; and you chose to show them to never underestimate you, you made the choice to _fight_.

His eyes look into both of your own, the movement of the Greek-Fire like irises hinting at a desperation, a hesitancy, a fear, you once would never have believed Ivar would be able to show.

You reach with impulsive, careless, stupid fingers to trace the scar that has mesmerized you for so long, that runs right over his cheekbone, under his eye. He jumps at the touch, although not as violently as the last time you were this stupid, and keeps silent as his eyes, his mesmerizing eyes, jump between yours with a thousand questions written in them.

With a deep breath and refusing to move your gaze from his, even if you feel as exposed as he is, you continue,

“And it wasn’t easy, was it? It wasn’t and it is not fair. And if you use that word like…like they use it, you prove them right. And we both know they are not right about you.

With one last caress of his jaw, you lower your hand and press a vulnerable palm over his armored heart, looking up at him with determination.

Ivar regards you in silence, surprising you at his lack of defensiveness, of bite, of cruelty. But his guarded, so tightly controlled expression that it almost looks fragile makes something within you relent, something within you soften.

And your voice is just as quiet as before, but this time lacking the bite when you say, “So…stop using that word like an insult, because you turned that word into so much more. Because _you_ are so much more,” You say, the fervor in your voice surprising you. After a beat of silence, you add in a mumble, “Like an insufferably stubborn man, among other things.”

He says nothing in response, only stubbornly offering you the bracelet with a clenched jaw. You roll your eyes, but extend your arm and allow him to put it on your wrist, trying to dispel the electrifying effects his warm touch has on your skin.

With his fingers still on your wrist, Ivar tugs and draws you closer. Surprised, your feet clumsily cross the space he demands to be crossed, and you look up into his eyes, those alluring eyes that both threaten and adore.

Ivar says nothing for a few moments, before finally moving forward, and your heart skips a beat, your breath leaves you. For a moment that lasts an eternity, you think he will be the one to _give in_.

But Ivar only leans close to speak by your ear, a murmur of your name. A moment, and you hear him again, quietly, barely a breath, “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” You warn, just as quietly, “I did not say those things expecting gratitude, I said them because they are true.”

Uncertain fingers trace one last hesitant caress along the skin in your wrist, right over the bracelet he gifted you with, and it is a silent agreement between you that you both return to browsing the market.

“Almost as fine as Byzantine silk, I swear on it,” The woman promises, offering you a display of soft and flowing linens. “Fit for the Gods, even.”

You laugh as you shake your head, “I am far from divine, good woman.”

“Because you lack my silk,” She insists with a toothy smile, and another light chuckle leaves your lips as you look over the different colors of the silk she offers, eyeing the varying colors and trying to decide on a good one for a formal peplos.

A rough hand grabs one of the dark red pieces before you can make your choice.

“I like this one.” Ivar says, and even if his tone makes it sound like an order, you still nod your approval and ask the vendor for the needed linens.

Later, after spending part of your day browsing the dresses and cloth offered in the market so tirelessly your feet now ache, you relax in your bed with a warm cup of milk and honey in your hands, watching as the pale sun settles over Kattegat’s horizon.

The warmth of the fire, the safety of the house around you, the rhythm of this city; none of this should feel as familiar, as comforting as it does.

Drawing your knees to your chest, hiding bare and cold feet under the furs, you set the cup down and keep your tired eyes on the horizon, even if the sun’s light is quick to blind you.

When you blink past the light, you find yourself looking into eyes as blue and as burning as Greek Fire, and a small smile pulls at your lips. He extends a hand, offers you a bracelet.

You roll your eyes, but accept Ivar’s warm touch as he places the bracelet around your wrist. Proudly keeping your place at his side, you walk with him through the street.

A woman keeps her dark eyes on you as you walk her by, and when you offer her a small smile and a nod in recognition, she offers you a smirk.

“ _Snakes curl at your feet. They bind you to this realm._ ” She says, her Greek harsh, only slightly better than Ivar’s. You swallow past the knot in your throat, and turn your gaze once again to the path ahead of you, jaw set tightly.

“ _Not for long._ ”

She laughs, darkly, hungrily, knowingly.

“ _You should know better than to say that, chosen of Persephone_.”

You stop dead in your tracks, something off about her flawless Greek startling you. She holds your gaze, a challenge shining in her blind eyes. You blink, trying to see what changed of her face that unsettles you so, but you cannot seem to focus.

The woman lowers her face, a dark laugh echoing around you as darkness consumes the once vivid and loud streets. You turn around wildly, looking for…for…

The woman appears in front of you, face bare and blood dripping down her full lips. She extends her hand, offers you a red veil.

A gasp makes its way out of your lips as you sit up in the bed, eyes frantically searching for…her, as if she is to still be here.

You cannot shake from your mind the snippets of the dream -Vision? Message?- from your mind, and when you straighten from the fire you were occupied with, you catch sight of the clothes and linens you bought today and are startled by the amount of red you can see.

The color of a bride’s veil. The veil _she_ offered you.

When you lift uncertain hands to run through your loose hair, you catch a glimpse of the bracelet Ivar gifted you on your wrist.

A shackle. A snake to curl at your feet and bind you.

Trying with all your might to dispel such thoughts, you return to your seat with the now cold cup of milk and honey in your hands and close your eyes tight.

Try as you may, each time you manage to shake off the images of your dream, behind closed eyes you see the countless dreams that came before it, the countless times you saw a figure that wasn’t quite mortal lurking in your dreams.

All the times before and after your return to Eleusis where you saw clearly in the distance a pair of thrones, though you knew one would remain empty for quite a while. Even after finding yourself shackled and bound in Kattegat, the dream of the snakes that slithered around you, only to then make you trip and fall, only to let Ivar move over you, promise you a kingdom against your lips.

Gods, the vision of…of the woman that cries gold, the motherly smile, the armor covering her chest. How you could blink and see blind eyes and dark skin instead, bloodied lips and still the same warm and welcoming smile. Both hands extended towards you, of which you found yourself unable to hold on to neither.

You never believed it to be a curse, to be a woman born destined to be close to the Gods.

But your eyes fill with tears, your heart grows heavy, and you cannot help but think how life could have been so much easier, how you could have been so happy, if only you had never known both of the Seer and the Oracle, of Freyja and Persephone. Of Kattegat and Attica.

And how you wish for a life where you don’t feel Fate tearing you in two.


	31. Chapter 31

_Ivar crawls over you, cages you against the cold ground, his lips a breath away from yours, “Half a kingdom for a promise…”_

When you wake up the next morning, luckily free of any dreams you can remember, you are rather surprised by how not even Ivar getting out of bed, getting dressed, or the thralls that are walking around the room were able to wake you up.

And, of course, Ivar notices.

“Are you well?”

“Of course I am,” You reply easily, going through the motions of your day and slipping into the warm blue dress. When you pick the earrings and trinkets to wear today and walk back to your husband, you are greeted with a murmur of your name. After a deep breath, you amend, “Dreams, nothing more. I promise.”

“Don’t hide things from me.” Ivar reminds you, and you accept his words, feeling strangely reprimanded.

You start putting on the blue earrings you like to believe are the ones Ubbe gifted you shortly after your wedding, you muse, “‘Half a kingdom for a promise, half a soul for a ring’. That’s what they say about my Goddess, and her…”

“Marriage?”

“Abduction,” You correct, turning your back to him and trying and failing to suppress a shiver as he moves your hair out of the way with ease, fingers skimming over the bare skin of your back. “She had only to vow to be Lord Hades’ wife to earn half a kingdom, yet she had to give up half of her soul to bear his ring.

You toy with your own wedding ring absently, a nervous gesture you have found yourself doing more than once ever since Ivar first put it on your finger.

“You think that’s a bad deal?” Ivar insists, voice low by your ear, “She was made Queen.”

“Not fully, she…she is not fully anything. Not fully his, because he gives her up each spring, not fully her mother’s, who still mourns her every winter. Not dead, not alive. Nothing.”

“Or everything,” Ivar whispers, and he tugs a little harder on the laces of your dress, a playful reminder you ought to straighten your back. “I’d think you more than anyone would understand the privilege of being fully bound to nothing.”

“It wouldn’t be a privilege. I don’t know who I’d be, if…” _If Fate weren’t tearing me in two._

“You could have been happy.” Ivar offers, voice low. You have a feeling he not only speaks of you and the circumstances of your life and what they made out of you.

You close your eyes, and let silence reign, because there’s no answer you can give that doesn’t lie.

Before you take your leave, you gather your strength, what your mother called your Athenian nobility, and call out Ivar’s name.

“You said I have your trust,” You start, certain steps taking you to the dresser where the golden snake a very skilled craftsman made into a bracelet lays. Without hesitation, you grab it, and put it on, on the same wrist Ivar did when he gifted it to you. “I want to talk with some men that arrived a few days ago. They come from Greece.”

He stops by the door, turning to you with a frown, “Your home?”

“Macedonia, further North from my-…from Eleusis. I want to know what…what the Gods have made of my land, of Greece. They surely have information.”

Ivar considers you for a few moments, before sighing, and limping towards a chair, where he sits.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he narrows his eyes, “I trust you, but I am far from an idiot.”

“If I were intending to fool you, I wouldn’t be telling you this.”

His head tilts to the side as he regards you. After a few moments, Ivar frowns and turns to you, “Am I the one being tested now?”

You offer him the same words he did once, “Can you blame me for my curiosity?”

Ivar considers your words, before accepting them with a movement of his head.

“Fine. But I want to be there.”

____

“The world you left behind isn’t the one it is now, Eleusinian.” The man tells you, offering a shrug. Your eyebrows lift, and you wonder if you ought to be offended, if there’s truly an edge of accusation behind the man’s words.

“Then tell her about it, hm?” Ivar presses, eyes set on the man that spoke, making something quite close to fear cross his features.

“I-I don’t know much.” The man stammers, but you step closer.

“It’s alright, I-…just tell me what you know.”

He shrugs, “There was an invasion by the Byzantine Empire on Laconia. It was all done on the orders of the Patriarch of Constantinople. To convert the…pagans of Laconia.”

The same crusade was sent to Attica, and they razed it all. They killed, and defiled, and burned. They won.

You grit your teeth, but force yourself to keep your voice steady as you press,

“And?”

“Sparta was well aware of the army they sent, they…prepared, and they fought. Anax Lysander was victorious. They burnt the Christians alive, left their bodies high up in the walls, for everyone to see.”

You smile slightly, brokenly. Leave it to Lysander to remind the Christians of their sins, burning their defeated warriors like they once burnt you. Who would have thought the mighty Anax of Laconia was capable of sentimentality?

_“Those Athenians will not let you fight,” The Anax stands, arms crossed over his broad chest. “They will never follow a woman into battle.”_

_“I will not fight, Lysander,” You argue, “I do not need to.”_

_“Ah, I’ve heard that tone before,” Lysander’s mother chuckles, weathered skin wrinkling with her smile. Even her smile, you notice, is coated in iron and blood, backed by the mettle that makes Spartan women famous as they are. “You have your mother’s ambitions, child.”_

_“And my father’s drive. I do not come here empty handed, expecting Sparta to accept me without giving something in exchange.”_

_“And what is it you offer, sweet one?”_

_“An army,” You turn to your cousin, “Narses, the Strategus of Attica, he has put his men at my disposal.”_

_“For us to…what? Retake Greece from the Empire and their God?”_

_You smile. You know it is madness, you know it is a lost cause, but you still smile. And Lysander returns the smile, hungry and mad._

The man nods, slightly comforted, or reassured, it seems, by your smile.

“If I may,” One of the men says, stepping forward. He bows his head in greeting when he comes to stand before you, before speaking, “The Empire retreats from Spartan land. Your cousin has bought our lands and your Gods a few decades, with this display. The caliph recognizes Laconian independence from the Empire, if only because they have a common enemy. So do the Kievan Rus, and the Rashidun.”

You simplify his words with a phrase, and yet you know as you utter the words that you are standing there, begging for them to confirm it as true, to reassure you there’s no lie, no twist, in this.

“Laconia is free of the Empire. O-Of their God.”

The Macedonian man smiles, and nods his head, “It is free.”

You over your mouth as a sob threatens to leave your lips. _Free._

The man bows his head again in a sign of respect.

“We honor your fight, even if we do not share your drive. May your Gods keep you, and our home.”

You nod your head, but you can’t say anything. _Free._

“You can leave.” Ivar says somewhere behind you, but it sounds like you’re underwater.

The men leave, and you cannot move. Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t think you can control your own body right now. _Free._

Ivar stands before you, eyes searching yours. You cannot stop shaking.

You think you say his name, your voice small and broken.

His hand finds the back of your head, you think he is trying to soothe you with the soft caress of his rough hand on your hair.

A murmur of your name, and you can only look at him with wide eyes, begging him to have an answer to the chaos that brews inside you.

Ivar brings you to him, quickly and roughly, and you think dazedly that you wouldn’t have been able to thaw if he hadn’t made you move. Your face is pressed against his chest and you feel you can finally breathe since you’ve heard the word _free_.

Your hands scramble for purchase against him, and your breaths are quick and out of your control, and you…you…

The jarring movement of Ivar’s left arm as he thrusts his crutch deep into the ground, as if to find a way to keep you both upright, makes something break within you.

The panicked breaths become sobs, and you shut your eyes tight. You cry, you cry for the grief you carried for so long, you cry for the nostalgia that chokes you, you cry for the relief of being finally free of the flames.

Ivar doesn’t say anything, or if he does, you don’t hear it.

His free hand is warm and certain at the back of your head, keeping you safe and whole as you hold on desperately to him, trying to find any semblance of certainty in the world that has turned upside down.

Or maybe it is upright, for once, for the first time since they dragged your mother out of that temple and set her alight in front of you.

 _Free_. Laconia is free of the Empire, of the Christians and their God.

You started a war you knew was doomed from the start, a war for the freedom you deserved, for the freedom your Gods had promised you. You hoped, you dreamt, you prayed, you died for that freedom; but deep down you always knew that it wasn’t a war you could win.

You believed for a while, when the pain of the burns was not so fresh on your body but still fresh on your mind, that maybe you weren’t meant to survive this war, that maybe you wouldn’t live to see the day the Gods were rightfully honored again. That maybe you’d die defeated and afraid in some realm that belonged to no one but the Christian God.

Each soul you lost on the way…their ghosts have haunted you with the memory of your failure, taunting you that for your arrogance and your pride you started a doomed war that only brought death and chaos to your home.

And there aren’t words to speak of the weight you feel lifted of your shoulders, and you can only grasp with shaking hands at whatever you can reach of Ivar, hoping he can somehow keep you from disappearing.

For so long, to so many people, you were nothing but the symbol of their hopeless fight, nothing but the rallying call of an already-lost war. And now, the fight proves not hopeless at all, the war isn’t lost yet.

And you feel like you’ll unravel at the seams, you feel like all the hopes and expectations and titles they put over your head, around your wrists and ankles, will disappear and prove you are nothing without them.

You know Laconia isn’t Attica, you know the war against the Christians will not end for many years, if ever; but…it is a victory.

You realize as your breaths slow, that when you once would have resented not being a part of a victory in this war, now all you can feel is relief.

Because as you loosen your hold on the Viking that seems to be trying more than anything to keep you standing and realize he might as well be the reason Fate hasn’t torn you in two yet; as past the mist of panic and chaos and emotion you find the peace that comes with knowing they don’t need you to fight or to win; you cannot help but take a breath and send the Gods you’ve given everything for a single plea.

To let another be the symbol of the fight, let another be the rallying call of the free Greeks. Let another fight and die, you have done so already.

To let _you_ live. Let you choose, let you be free, too.

“Thank you.” You whisper when all that reigns between you and Ivar is silence.

Ivar’s hand moves down from the back of your head, settles somewhere at your back. His chin rests at the top of your head, and you feel him sigh.

“Don’t. I’m not here for gratitude.” He tells you gruffly, stubbornly, giving you back the same words you told him mere days ago.

____

You watch the men train, so differently from the orderly soldiers you would ogle as a teen back in your homeland. They go after one another brutally, grunts and shoves and yells and if blood is drawn then so be it.

You try it deny the part of you that is intrigued by it all, but apparently it cannot be hidden even from the Prince that stands at your side overlooking the training as well, judging from the chuckle he lets out.

“Different from you peace-loving Greeks, isn’t it?” He boasts, looking at the warriors with something akin to pride.

You offer a smile and a nod, “Quite.”

After a few moments of silence, he turns his head towards you, eyeing you for a few moments. You turn to him as well, the question written in your eyes going unanswered. The man instead walks ahead, reaching for a shield and an axe.

“Women in your homeland aren’t allowed to fight, are they?” He questions, turning to you.

Excitement that you try to bring down courses through you as you answer with a shake of your head. He tosses you the shield. It is heavier than you thought.

“We ought to care for the home.” You offer as explanation, but he laughs.

“Can’t you do both?” The Prince taunts, testing the weight of the axe in his hand. Nodding to the shield you hold, he instructs, “Defend yourself.”

“What?” You ask, panicked, but he has already lounged. The axe swings with a lot of strength but is stopped by the shield you raise just in time. “Gods!”

Even your leg suffers the strain of holding your stance when his weapon lodges in the wood. You hear Hvitserk chuckle.

“Now, push back,” He orders, and you are about to follow his command, putting all your strength in your torso to push him back, but his foot finds your leg and brings you to the ground. You let out a groan of pain as your back collides with the hard earth, and he chuckles, again, “That was for telling them about Thora, sister.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He offers you a hand to help you up, but you refuse it. This turns his smile a little proud, you dare say, as he readies his stance again and regards you with interest in his dark eyes.

You raise the shield the way he instructed you to you offer him a smile of your own. Hvitserk goes through axes and swords, gives you a smaller and a bigger shield. His short phrases telling you how to stand, where to put your strength help you, but after a while your body, unused to this, begs for retrieve.

When the Viking knocks you off your feet for the fourth time in a short while, he puts the axe back in the rack where he took it from, and offers you a hand to stand up.

“Turns out that fighting is as hard as it looks. Thrilling.” You dead pan, licking your lips and wondering why you taste blood.

The Prince smiles your way and tugs on a lock of your hair that by now has fallen in complete disarray and no longer resembles the traditional updo you worked on this morning.

“This won’t work if you want to learn to fight,” He laughs, “Don’t you know how to braid your hair?”

_“Sit.” The Varangian asks, motioning behind her._

_“No.” You state back, arms crossed. Her green eyes flash with fury for a moment before she sighs, running an inked hand over her face and attempting again._

_“Sit, child.”_

_“I do not need to learn because I will not wear war braids, Sie-…”_

_Her expression when she lifts her eyes again to yours silences you quickly._

_“Sit.” She orders._

_You do. It never hurts to learn, after all, right?_

_She teaches your fingers to move with voice alone, and when you tug a little too hard, when you catch a knot and end up with a tuft of hair in your brush, she says nothing. She just grunts and tells you to start from the beginning._

_You learn to make war braids, learn family is what we make it. Learn the Varangian is a mother to you, by Fate if not by blood.  
_

“I do,” You reply, trying to ignore the pang in your heart at the reminder of the gently brutish woman that spared your life and raised you. “But we wear them differently in my homeland.”

He raises his eyebrows in question, and in a moment of confidence you do not have you motion for the wooden steps at the entrance of the longhouse, offering to show him.

Hvitserk laughs, but nods his head, “Alright, show me your magic, witch.”

You sit behind him and work meticulously on disarming the braids at the sides of his head, before moving upwards and separating the last one.

“You’re fast at that.” He notes.

You hum in response, focused on your task. Your fingers make quick work of his soft hair, finding it incredibly easier to disentangle than Sieghild’s. 

You start with the small braids by the sides of his head that would fall loose like a woman’s curls to frame his face, trying to recall the hair you saw actors of Leonidas wear when you were young.

You lose track of time as you work on his hair, but judging by the way he asks for an apple to one of the passing merchants and starts eating quietly, you do not think he is in a hurry.

While you are working on the braid that makes the hair move back and away from his face, you feel a tap on one of your knees where they rest one on each side of Hvitserk’s body.

“About Ivar’s decision to give me time to avoid losses in Strepshire,” The Prince starts swiftly, “Thank you.”

“I did nothing, Hvitserk.” You mutter back, but find your work interrupted when Hvitserk tilts his head back to look you in the eyes, skepticism written all over his face.

“Why do I find that hard to believe?” He sentences dryly, almost resting the top of his head against your stomach and messing up the braids, so you roll your eyes and push him so that his head is upright again.

“Because in my experience you sons of Ragnar are incredibly odd in your relations with one another.”

He laughs at your words, and you think it is an acceptance of them. “You don’t know half of it.”

From an errant thread of your own sleeve you manage to close the loose knot of braids at the back of his head. Although these people’s hairs are straighter and thicker than the ones you worked on back home, Hvitserk still could look like one of the depictions of young King Leonidas you saw when you visited Athens.

When you release his hair and lean back, he immediately reaches up to touch the braids, scrunching up his face.

“It’s strange.”

“It’s what we peace-loving Greeks wear.” You smile, correcting your work with a few light touches.

The Prince stands up and you do the same, but he still wears that uncomfortable expression on his face.

“I hate this.” He mumbles, looking indignantly at a minuscule braid that falls to frame his face.

“I don’t blame you,” You reply, shrugging. “I can disarm it, if you like.”

His eyes stray from yours and his eyebrows lift.

“I think you do not have any more time.” Hvitserk offers with the beginning of a knowing smile on his lips.

When you look over your shoulder you catch the King’s angry gaze set on you. Ivar stands unmoving by the entrance to the training grounds, making you question how long has he been watching you interact with his brother.

“Oh.”

“You see, I have dealt with… _that_ my whole life. It’s your turn, witch.”

You watch him take his leave, and don’t miss the way the King’s eyes follow his brother as he walks past him. You are almost certain words are said, but you cannot hear them. Even then, this only seems to make Ivar even more angry, nostrils flaring and lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes quickly return to you, silently berating you for breaking a rule he didn’t set.

Still, you take a deep breath and walk towards the King. Before you have a chance to speak, his growled words reach your ears.

“What did he tell you?”

“Huh?” You ask, dumbfounded. He takes another step closer, the movement of his shoulders as he moves his crutch only helping remind you of that injured Lynx you stumbled into as a young girl. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

“I don’t want you spending time with my brother.”

“Well, I don’t recall asking for your permission.”

He holds your gaze for a few moments, nostrils flared and eyes cold and yet furious; but eventually just grunts for you to come with him. You do, and you bite your tongue and keep silent as you do so, even if you itch to talk.

“You and Hvitserk seemed…content,” He starts, a muffled grunt leaving his chest when he moves his braced legs. If you weren’t so weirded out by his choice of words you would ask him if he’s in pain. Either way, the King soon continues, “Must be that he’s not a monster keeping you captive, right?”

“What?” You frown, stopping when he does. Ivar turns to look at you with fury in his eyes, however held by the mask of cold and distance of the King of Kattegat.

“Is that not what you think, hm?” He asks through a smile as false as it is cruel, “You have no interest in being at a monster’s side, isn’t that right?” It feels strangely like having your own words spit back at you, but you cannot dwell on it, for Ivar steals your focus and breath as he moves. None of the usual grace in his movements and another muffled grunt leaving his lips, he crosses the distance between you. You hold your ground, even as he towers over you with the eyes of a man that would kill for less offenses than yours, “You have been wishing and praying for a way out, but you won’t get one.”

You feel your heart beating wildly in your chest, and your temper begs to rise to meet his, to argue back with just as much fire and return as much as you get.

But, you force yourself to keep your calm, looking into his eyes and trying to see what is making him say these things. Surely it was not seeing you and Hvitserk together? No, this is something else, something else entirely.

“What…what brought this on?”

“You’ve blinded me, and you know it. Did the same to that poor bastard you promised to marry. I won’t let you-…” He snarls back at you, eyes blazing and mouth curled too alike an animal baring its teeth. Even though he stops himself, you hear the words he doesn’t say: _I won’t let you tell me one day that it was all a lie._ With an even lower voice, he reminds you, “Give me reason to believe you’ve betrayed me, and I won’t keep any promises I made to you.”

“Don’t threaten me. That’s not-…this is not what I want, for us to fight.” You try, your hands tightening to fists to keep your anger at bay. When you look into his eyes, you know he also hears the words you don’t say, _it isn’t what you want either._

A clench in his jaw, his eyes hardening, his voice low as he speaks, “What do you want, then? What will you ask for now, hm?”

“Honesty.” You reply without hesitation, voice low.

To your surprise, Ivar tilts his head to the side, and accepts your words with a gesture of his mouth. It all looks awfully performative, false, an _act_ , and you stand your ground, ready for whatever it is that he has driven himself mad with.

“Alright, let’s be honest, wife,” His gaze pierces into yours, and his mouth curls into a snarl, “How long did you wait for someone to come save you before you lost hope?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have kept your eyes on the people coming and going, on the ones close enough to your homeland. You have been waiting patiently for a chance to have them take you to your home, have them save you from me. But it never happened, did it?”

The edge in his voice, the bite, the tone, it all reminds you of that first dinner you had with him here in Kattegat. It reminds you of manic words, of deluded convictions.

“You sound…”

Ivar smile manages to make you feel cold and small. And you realize that is exactly what he wants, that was the game he was playing, the part he was playing. To corner you into defeat.

“Like a mad man?” His smile trembles, and for a moment you see the mask slip, for a moment you see _him_ , and you see the fear, you see the pain, you see the desperation. But Ivar pushes, “That’s what happened, isn’t it? You waited and waited for someone to come save you, and when they didn’t you…” He gestures with his hand, the nonchalance in the gesture completely lost at the rage written in his eyes, “Caved.”

“Caved?”

He shrugs, but you see past the façade, “Agreed to play pretend, to…to keep the monster happy, to keep yourself safe.”

“I don’t _cave_ , Ivar.”

His smile is mocking, “Oh, but you do. You like to pretend you don’t, your insufferable pride likes to pretend you don’t. But you do, and you have,” Ivar nods to himself, the cruel smile on his lips earning a manic edge you haven’t seen in a while. He presses, “Will you deny that’s what you saw in me? I thought you wouldn’t lie to me, wife.”

“I thought those things when everything was different!” You insist, gesturing with your powerless arms and not caring if someone is to hear.

Ivar moves closer again, and this time you meet his stride, also stepping the distance between you and looking into his eyes. Your Gods and his both know you may lose a battle of power with him, of strength, of courage. But not one of wills.

He will have to kill you to have you relent.

Still, he insists, and if the mask slips, if the so tightly held control vanishes through his fingers, if the armor cracks, if his questions are true and not cruel tricks, who can truly know?

“How are things different? How is any different how you see me now than before? To you I still am the monster that imprisoned you, nothing changed since the first time you saw me.”

“No. Ivar, if you’re a monster…what does that make me? I stand by your side, I trust you, I-…”

It makes you a monster too.

But the woman that lured Narses to the cliff the Varangians pushed him off of, the woman that accepted the thrill of war knowing she would lose and die, that woman was a monster already, and didn’t have anything to do with Ivar.

Maybe you both are monsters, maybe you’ve just been playing at being human.

The thought doesn’t unsettle you as much as it should.

Ivar holds your gaze, before he takes his eyes from yours with a breath that seems to shudder past parted lips. You keep your attention on his expression, on the tremble of his brows, on the conflict between vulnerability and anger.

After a few breaths you hold, Ivar lowers his head, leans closer, quietens his voice,

“Tell me things have changed. Tell me I’m not…seeing things.”

You cannot help the foolish and hopeless beating of your heart, that both soars and breaks at his despairing request. The words that that same foolish heart wants you to say back are at the tip of your tongue, held back by sheer will even as Ivar’s uncertain and unmoored blue eyes look into yours looking for…anything.

But you can’t give in. If you give words to it, if you name things you make them real, and if the flutter in your heart, if the emotion tight in your chest, if the truth even your mind accepts are real, then _you_ are nothing, you’ve failed your legacy, your homeland, your people.

But you cannot return to fighting, to this mad chase for a freedom that never was and never could be. 

Because you know the bindings keeping you tethered to Greece are as punishing and as suffocating as those Ivar first set on your wrists. Learning of Laconia’s victory wouldn’t have felt the way it did, you wouldn’t have threatened to break when the chains loosened, if you weren’t a prisoner to them as much as you are to Ivar.

And you’ve realized you are also nothing of without Sieghild, without her guidance and her Gods, without Kattegat and all the freedoms it has granted you, without…without Ivar.

So you look into his eyes, and you can’t do what your heart tells you to, but you can’t do nothing. So you step closer, you lay a hand on his chest, let your palm rest over his heart.

Your voice is hushed, “Everything changed. O-Or maybe nothing did, and I just don’t lie to myself anymore,” You take a breath, and after a moment you offer a helpless shrug, “Maybe we changed. You aren’t the man that put chains on me and forced my hand, I’m not the woman that would have ran from you at the first opportunity.”

Ivar’s eyes search yours, but it seems the fight leaves him for once, and he bites back the anger. Still, he grits his teeth, his head moves with a gesture of annoyance -that you dare think is at himself- and he huffs an angry breath.

Ivar stops leaning so close to you, and with a stab of his crutch on the wooden floor that looks more forceful than need be, he turns his back to you, and leaves you behind.


	32. Chapter 32

The sun is starting to leave way for the moon when the door to the shop is opened again. Words about being closed are leaving Valdís’ lips but she catches the figure of the Prince and saves them.

Hvitserk greets her and Freydis with murmured kindness, and turns to you with questions and also an apology in his eyes. Reminded of the last time you saw him, when he left you in the training fields after angering his brother, you think he may feel guilty, so you offer a smile as you approach him.

“What is the matter?”

He offers only a half-hearted shrug around his easy smile, “I will let you guess.”

“The King calls for me.” You say in a sigh. The Prince laughs quietly, nodding his head.

“Yeah,” Hvitserk says, offering you your cloak from the hanger by the door, “You didn’t need your premonition for that, did you?”

As you walk away from the shop with Hvitserk by your side, you cannot help but asking, “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, but…we must talk of war, and Ivar wants you to be there,” After a few moments of silence, you hear him speak again, pride shining through his tone, “My plan to avoid more losses than necessary when raiding Strepshire, it pulled through.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had contacts that had traveled to that city, some even that had been called to bring forth some of the Lord’s more…extravagant tastes.”

“Should I ask?” You ponder out loud, a small furrow of your nose. The Prince chuckles.

“No,” He sentences without hesitation. With a deep breath, he continues explaining, “Well, I discovered through these… _merchants_ that the city has tunnels for the family, servants, and all the like.”

“Tunnels your brother can use. Tunnels Stithulf wants to use.” You breathe out, stopping dead in your tracks and facing Hvitserk with a growing smile on your face.

But he only shrugs in response, and explains, “You mentioned old stone, and it didn’t…make sense that the Saxons would depend so much on a fishing town.”

“You are brilliant.” You laugh, eyes wide.

Hvitserk shrugs, but you see him puff his chest at the praise. It is almost adorable.

With an arm going around your shoulders casually he offers,

“I had to be. Can’t have the Greek Priestess outsmarting all of us.” He teases with a smile, to which you roll your eyes. Hvitserk keeps his arm around your shoulders, and guides you all the way to the longhouse.

____

The Vikings prepare for a raid on Strepshire, with Hvitserk’s information being the last piece they were waiting for to take the city. A matter of two days, and they will set sail.

The brothers and their men are discussing war, and once again you are reminded, as the King speaks, of how brilliant Ivar is when it comes to battle and thinking like his enemy.

He discusses how to ambush them from their tunnels, how the ships should approach the city, how the brunt of the forces -the ones that will approach directly through the front gate- should ready for the attack; he talks about it all with a certainty and a glint in his eye that speaks of seeing the world differently than everyone else, and you find yourself enthralled.

Hvitserk calls out your name and you turn to him. He gestures with his hand,

“Do you have anything to say?”

You share a look with your husband, “Ivar already knows all I know of Stithulf’s army.”

_Leaving the longhouse behind with certain steps, you eye the area around it for a small clearing of peace, Ivar trailing behind you. When you find it, you stop walking, turning around to meet Ivar’s eyes. After a moment of consideration, you smooth the ground underneath you with a sweep of your foot, and try imagining the formations in the earth._

_“What are you doing?”_

_“You asked me to show you my people’s ways of war,” You reply without hesitation, not lifting your gaze of the ground, “I’m showing you.”_

_You feel his eyes on you, but eventually Ivar sighs and with a small sound of exertion lowers himself to a sitting position across from you._

_“Narses always fought like a Byzantine, waged war like one too,” You recall the outskirts of Dublin with a small smile, and draw the first line, “But here he bent to Stithulf’s formations, he accommodated our people to fit his plans. It cost us everything.”  
_

“You spoke of someone else, a man from the Mediterranean.”

“Acar, the mercenary. He’s commander of the Arab forces. They are going to be the first forces Stithulf will send to aid the city, I’m certain,” You start confidently, “They are the same men that have brought a large part of my homeland to heel.”

“How do you Greeks fight against them?” One of the Vikings asks, and you are forced to walk up to the map when an opening for you to do so is made, silently, between the warriors discussing.

You do not fail to notice you are made to stand on the other end of the table, across from Ivar. You meet his eyes for a moment, and he only bows his head, prompting you to go on. An encouragement, a promise you have a safe place to land, a reassurance he has your back.

You never realized how much you needed it, needed him; until the moment you had so many eyes on you, awaiting like beasts for the next move of the foreign witch, and found your heart settling its beat, your confidence strengthening, when he met your eyes and promised he trusted you, promised you he was listening, promised he was proud.

Resting one hand on the table and letting your eyes trace the letters of Strepshire’s name, you explain, “We don’t fight them in open fields. The cavalry will always push for flanking your formations, especially if you hold a shield wall, and if you hold a direct onslaught against them for too long, their infantry will make way for their cavalry to strike through no matter the cost. Avoid that, avoid…predictability.”

After a breath, you add, “There’s also warriors we called champions. They are precise and deadly; they were used in the Mediterranean to weaken an army’s morale, to disarm their plans.”

“How?”

You swallow past a dry throat before answering, “By killing the leaders, the heroes. They send their best not to thin the army’s numbers, but to cut off the army’s head.”

You find Ivar’s eyes and you realize now what the knot in the pit of your stomach that settled since you heard they were to raid Strepshire was. _Fear_.

Even the best fall in battle, even the best go to their Valhalla when their Gods cut off the thread of their fate. And you cannot help but fear Ivar will not return from that city, even if he survived Repton, York, and so much more.

You tell yourself you should feel shame at wanting to keep him alive, that you are believing his lies and your own by allowing yourself to care about him. You also know if he were to die, if Ivar weren’t to return, your status as a free woman -and your status as Queen, even if consort and nothing more- would be useful and you could leave Kattegat, return to the Greeks, never spend another day on this cold land. 

You know all this, and still you fear, still you know when time for battle comes both their Gods and yours will hear prayers for protection.

Returning your eyes to the map on the table, you suppress a sigh. You were never nothing other than hopelessly foolish, were you?

____

Ivar told you to go ahead and retire for bed without him, and from the room where they discuss war you two went on different directions.

While you were changing, you eyed the red dress Thora had helped you make a few days ago, while she’d not-so-subtly prodded at Hvitserk’s doings. It is a light and simple dress, certainly not made for the harsh cold of Kattegat, but confectioning it was familiar and nostalgic, and even if only as a keepsake of your home, you made it to resemble a Greek summer dress.

Instead of the night dress you usually wear, you chose the soft red fabric, and for a moment, with your feet bare and your hair loose, you felt closer to Gods you did even while standing in their temple.

You now sit on the ground by one of the larger windows of your bedroom, a collection of flowers and branches around you as you work on a wreath, not so different, even if life has proven to be so, from when you were a child in Eleusis, a healer in the Silk Roads, a Hiereia in Attica.

In your mind you go over what was discussed tonight, you go over all the certainties the Viking’s planning gives you that this will turn out in a victory.

You knew before this you trusted Ivar, his instinct, his intellect, his eyes that see beyond what others’ do. But Gods, to hear him speak of war and battle so surely, to see his eyes turn cold and calculating, the eyes of a strategist, to hear his voice imposing and certain, the voice of a leader…it is something else entirely.

He accepted your words about the Arab champions with surprising ease, and with his eyes on Hvitserk he asked about the dimensions of those tunnels under Strepshire.

In a matter of moments, Ivar turned the tide and decided to let Stithulf’s men have the tunnels, certain the Saxon would send through those tunnels the Arab champions to take out the sons of Ragnar and their higher-ranking men. With but a moment of consideration, he’d found a way to outsmart them.

You still hear his voice in your head, stating confidently that the Arabs haven’t faced enough Vikings, that the Saxons may be used to tricks but the foreigners aren’t. It still sends a thrill down your spine, remembering his voice lower when he stated the last steps of his plan, remembering his smile as he looked at the map on the table, certain of victory and hungry for it.

You don’t know how long you spend here, working on the wreath of flowers, with each intertwining of the stems a plea to the Goddess of Spring that she lets winter hold for a while longer, with each drop of blood you let the roses draw from your fingers an offering to the Queen of the Dead that she doesn’t take him from you just yet.

Ivar walks into the room, but don’t lift your gaze from your work, only greeting him with a hum.

“That dress is different, did you make it?”

“Greek _peplos_ ,” You tell him, nodding, “Or, my best attempt at it, anyways.”

“You look…”

“Cold? Yeah, I’m freezing.” You still stay there, your feet bare on the cold wood and your fingers carefully tracing over the crown of flowers.

“Beautiful,” He corrects, before taking his eyes off you with a slight twitch of what you could swear is embarrassment in his expression. Ivar acquiesces, “But…yes, also cold.”

You have to bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling like an idiot. Not even reminding yourself that you are Queen, that you are a grown woman, that you _are married to him_ could keep the stupid flutter of your heart.

“T-Thank you,” Is what you settle for saying. “I’ve missed wearing familiar clothes, to be honest. I feel closer to my Gods in this.”

“Ah, so you’re praying.”

You lift your gaze from your work, eyes narrowed, “I was there at the sacrifice, I honored your Gods. That doesn’t mean I won’t honor my own.”

He doesn’t fight you on it, and a part of you wonders why.

Ivar chooses not to say anything, and with practiced ease starts working on the buckles and fastenings of the braces on his legs.

“What are you praying for?” He asks after a few moments.

_Time._

You keep your gaze on the flowers in your hands, strikingly reminded of the last time he left you behind to chase after war and death.

Through gritted teeth, you bite out, “I hope you know that if you don’t return, if…if you leave me alone here, I’ll find a way to make you regret it. You won’t rest in your Valhalla while I have breath, Viking, so don’t…don’t die.”

Ivar only smiles, eyebrows lifted.

“Are you threatening me?”

You hold his gaze, and swallow past a tight throat. You only ask one thing, “Don’t leave me alone here.”

_In this kingdom, in this world, in this life._

“You’re not…scared for me, are you?” You say nothing, only glare at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you saying you’d mourn me if I died?”

What kind of question is that? You resist the urge to let your fear become venom, you bite back accusations of how he continues to be so blind to how much he means to you.

“Ah, so you notice I care for the monster that took me captive?” You say, though there’s lightness, mirth, in your taunt, “You are either insulting me by implying I am weak enough to pray for the life of a man I supposedly hate, or…you are admitting you were wrong.”

Ivar accepts your words with a shrug, and crawls to one of the cushioned settees near the bed. After a few moments, with his hand by his mouth, he admits,

“I…realize you were right.”

“So you were wrong.”

He frowns, “I didn’t say that.”

“But you were.”

Ivar rolls his eyes, an exaggerated gesture that only manages to make your smug smile wider.

Still, when you’re close enough, he extends a hand, beckoning you to him. And it is as easy as breathing, for you to take it and sit next to him, drawing your legs up underneath you, as if to protect vulnerable feet from the cold of Kattegat.

“Gods, woman, you’re freezing.” Ivar frowns, warm fingers closing over your own.

“What happens if those ships don’t return, Ivar?” You ask, your voice wobbling. You feel your breath quicken, and you are once again a child looking over the horizon of Eleusis, waiting for a navy that was never to return. “What happens if you don’t return?”

“Then you are free. Free of me, free of-…”

“Ivar.” You interrupt him, and it is all you can say. His expression softens, and he sighs.

“Do you want me to promise you that I will survive?” He asks, an edge of incredulity, of levity in his tone. As if he is trying to make you see the madness in your request.

It is in the hands of the Gods, you know this. You know you should not fear, you know you should not worry, you know you should do and feel and be many things.

But you still offer the shrug of one shoulder, and Ivar almost smiles.

After a breath, he acquiesces, “Better men have tried to kill me and failed.”

You accept his words, his strange form of reassurance, with a smile and a sigh that trembles past your lips.

After a few beats if silence, you ask, “You will come back before winter, won’t you?”

“Yes,” He assures you, but Ivar spares you a glance out of the corner of his eye, and offers, “If I don’t…”

“You will,” You sentence, interrupting him. You don’t even hear whatever words he tried speaking, words that spoke of the possibility of a winter alone here, if not a lot longer than that. After a moment, you offer, “If you don’t, you’re easy pickings for the Saxons. Dublin cannot hold if Stithulf regains his strength.”

You know you’re right, and Ivar knows it too. Still, he offers you a smirk, and taunts you, “And you are certain of this, wife?”

“Your arrival, your support, spared Dublin of capture, you know this. We had the upper hand,” You motion towards him with your chin in a taunt, your lips pulled into a smile that dares him, “Even with your mighty army, Ivar the Boneless, us Greeks made you falter.”

“Arrogant.” He accuses, but he still smiles, dark and proud.

“We were hungry and cold, far from home,” You remind him, “But we made you change tactics a few times, didn’t we?”

“We weren’t going to lose.”

“No, I know that. It was Fated that it ended the way it did,” You shrug, “But we made you fight for it.”

You could swear Ivar’s smile turns softer, more secret. He lifts the hand he holds to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to your fingers.

“That you did.”

As he is to drop your hand back, his eyes focus on the small wounds you sport on your fingertips. A drop of blood trails slowly down your ring finger, and Ivar hesitates only for a moment before he brings your hand to his mouth again, only this time to lick off the offending drop.

Your breath catches in your throat, and in the hungry and proud smile he sends your way you see the faint stain of red. The only thought in your head for a moment is the need to taste that blood off his lips.

You quieten those thoughts, using that same hand to shove playfully at the side of his face. Ivar snorts a laugh, but you could swear his eyes are darker when he looks back at you.

Your own eyes are drawn to the slight smear of blood you leave on his pale skin and…Gods, what wouldn’t you do to be able to close the distance and lick it off.

But you force yourself to also let go of those thoughts, and you let your smile dim as silence reigns between you again. Your eyes trace the wreath of flowers that lays there near one of the windows, an evidence of your prayers, an evidence of your weakness and your fear.

An evidence that your heart isn’t yours anymore.

If it ever was.

You cannot keep yourself from remembering his words yesterday, his accusations that you were somehow playing with his head, with…

Before your thoughts get ahead of you, you ask, “Do you truly believe I’ve been playing with you?”

Ivar looks ahead as he considers his answer, leaves you to watch his profile and the way the dim lights of the room play with the angles of his face.

“If you’d been playing with me, you wouldn’t have fought the way you did.” He tells you finally, but there’s words he isn’t saying.

“And I’m not fighting anymore,” You offer, earning a half-hearted shrug from him, and nothing else. An exasperated yet fond smile curves at your lips, and you sigh, “I told you before, your own thoughts are what drives you mad most of the time.”

The smile Ivar offers is one purely for your benefit, tired and bitter and gone in an instant.

For a moment he lowers his gaze to your joined hands, distractedly brushes over a small cut on your finger. His gaze is enthralling even if his eyes still don’t meet yours, and there’s a fragile sort of vulnerability written into the way he holds himself that makes you pause.

“In all my life, nothing…nothing has come easy,” He explains quietly. After a moment, he offers another flickering smile, though this one does speak of softness, “ _You_ certainly didn’t either, but lately things are different, and I can’t help but think it a…a vision, a mirage, that once I get close enough to having will just…vanish.”

He finishes his sentence with a gesture of his hand, and your eyes follow the movement with a dull ache in your heart.

You’re suddenly a chained and wrathful Priestess again, sitting across the table from your captor and having him share very similar words, “ _Nothing has come easy in my life, and since I was a child I would always ask the Gods_ why _.”_

You still don’t have an answer, though you wish you did.

You do have the certainty that this isn’t a trick, that this isn’t something easily lost. Never could be.

And looking into his eyes, meeting your fear with his own, both so different from each other; you decide to let go of pretenses and masks, if only for a moment.

If only for a brief, stupid moment of courage.

_It won’t vanish. I love you._

You let your hand cup the side of his face, your thumb caressing the scar you are so smitten by. Keeping your eyes on Ivar’s, you lean closer, silently begging that this is not wrong, that this is not another mistake.

His skin warms under your touch, and you watch with baited breath his lips part in innocent anticipation as you grow closer and closer. Ivar’s eyes travel to your own lips, before anxiously returning to meet your gaze again, looking more lost and vulnerable than you ever thought you would see him.

Deciding to listen to your heart, you press your lips softly against his, closing your eyes and letting the electricity and the warmth take control over your body.

Ivar’s sharp intake of breath through his nose, the way he tenses under your touch and almost freezes at the affection is not strange to you any longer, and it doesn’t deter you.

You move your mouth over his, the hand on the side of his face urging him close with as much tenderness as you can have when your heart beats like it wants to leave your chest and burrow into his.

When you pull back, his mouth chases after yours, and Ivar leans forward as if a thread tied you two together. You allow yourself a smile, tremulous and girlish as it is.

His eyes open slowly, as if awakening from a dream, and his breath leaves his parted lips quickly as he gazes back at you. A few moments go by, breaths shared and your heart beating fast and thrilled in your chest.

A challenge, really, to see who yields first, who admits to craving the touch of the other’s lips, who offers and who accepts or rejects.

The Gods may have made you arrogant but they didn’t make you stupid, and you’ve known for a while this is where you were headed, this is where you wanted to be.

Doesn’t mean you’ll admit it, at least not like this.

Surprisingly, it is Ivar who caves first.

“Kiss me.” He breathes out. A dare, a command, a plea.

And you do, with no hesitation this time.

Ivar kisses you back hungrily, deeply and desperately, demanding with teeth and tongue what you give freely.

His strong hand grabs onto your wrist tightly, keeping your caressing touch on his face, while the other finds a home in the back of your head, gripping onto the loose strands of your hair.

It feels like it is the first time you’ve kissed him -been kissed by him, been kissed at all- and yet it feels like the electrifying touch of his lips on yours is a dance as old as time itself.

There’s a tremble in your hand when you hold on to the fabric over his chest, there’s an urgency in his hands as he pulls you closer; but there’s an ease to the way you straddle him, there’s an intimacy in the way he breathes your name over your lips.

You lose track of time in the heady feeling of his lips on yours. One of his hands grabs at the side of your jaw, tilting your head to meet his kiss, the other settles roughly on your ass, bringing you down against him, drawing you closer, closer, closer.

You gasp his name against his lips, breaths labored when you rest your brow against his, heart beating wildly in your chest when you meet his eyes.

You smile, breathless and a little mad.

But Ivar looks at you like someone who just realized stands at the edge of a precipice. His eyes widen, and he pushes you off him, however shakily.

Rejection burns, it burns and scalds and your lips part but no words leave them. You can only stand there, cold and hesitant, and watch as he scrunches his face in reluctance, in hesitation, in anger.

Ivar lifts a hand to the back of his head, avoiding your eyes with a twitch of anger, of shame.

“You know I can’t…I can’t do this.”

You stare back at him, heart still beating fast and cold taking over you. However slighted you were by his abrupt rejection, however scared you are of your own feelings, however torn you are about the things you want; all of it pales when you see the expression in Ivar’s face.

When you learned Laconia was free, when Fate released you of the strings holding you by the throat and you threatened to break at the seams; you clung to Ivar like he was the one thing keeping you in this world, and past the unsteadiness of his legs that at the moment you couldn’t think of, maybe out of sheer will and strength alone, he stabbed the wooden floor and kept you upright, didn’t let you fall, didn’t let you break.

And the same certainty flows through you, the same steeled resolve, the same drive to grant safety and comfort and peace.

And so you don’t hesitate when you step closer again, one of your hands tentatively settling on his shoulder, the other, as if half of you was braver than the other, reaches for the side of his jaw, thumb going back and forth over the scar under his eye.

“ _This_ doesn’t have to be anything other than…this.”

You lean down and bring his mouth to yours, softly. It surprises you and delights you in equal measure, how easily Ivar surrenders to your kiss, how pliantly he leans to meet the touch of your mouth on his.

When you part, his eyes open slowly, and the absolutely enthralled expression on his face as he stares up at you sends a rush of heat through you.

But, after a moment the daze disappears. And he still grits his teeth, his eyes still jump from place to place, and he still insists, “I…can’t give you what you need, what you want.”

You shake your head, unwavering. You once again wonder which one of you is the bewitched one, when with but a look Ivar makes secrets spill from your lips, when with nothing but his touch he makes invisible bindings release you.

“What I need is you,” You whisper. Your hand on his shoulder lowers, presses softly over the center of his chest, and you lean your brow against his, never taking your eyes off his, “What I want is this.”

You wouldn’t have believed yourself to be brave enough to, even after the words leave your lips, and with the truth you tried ignoring is looking right at you; not falter, to not feel the instinct to pull back, to return to secrets and safety.

There’s no hiding you’ve wondered what the cost would be to give in, hoped maybe he would give in and so you would be able to have _this_ without the guilt of having chosen it.

There’s no hiding you wished to just forget for a moment there’s a world past him and accept that maybe it was Fate after all, that maybe this borrowed time is a chance to live another life.

_Your fingers digging into the wooden pillar of the home are the one thing that keeps you upright as you confess, the last breath of an already dead woman: “I wish I never returned here. I wish…I wish I had gone with you to Kattegat, like you said we could. I wish I could have lived another life, móðir.”_

The life that should have been, maybe.

Maybe that is why it is so easy to accept his hands on your hips bringing you back to him with a gentleness that almost surprises you, maybe that is why it feels like home when you straddle him and put your arms over his shoulders, maybe that is why it feels like your heart beats in synch with another’s when Ivar leans his head against your chest and sighs.

Your hands trace over his back, his shoulders, you cannot help it. You find yourself almost giddy with the realization you can now touch as much as you want to, as much as he will let you.

A voice in the back of your mind reminds you that pretend as you wish, you are aware you could have had this, or something so much closer to this than the scraps you’ve been living off of, much earlier.

Ivar says something, but you do not hear it, and you ask him with a hum of question to speak again.

You feel his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, “You’re what I need too,” He breathes, before moving so that he presses a kiss right over your heart. Your breath catches in your throat and your hand moves to the back of his neck before you even realized you’ve moved. He smiles against the red fabric of your dress, and offers, “What I want, too.”

_It is yours._

But you can’t say that. He will be taking your heart all the way to England with him, and you wish you could relent and let him know of that, if only to give him the task to bring it back to you.

You don’t make any attempt to move, and he doesn’t either. Your fingers tire of aimless wandering, and you silently take up the task of undoing his braids.

You could swear he leans more of his weight against you as you work your fingers through his hair.

You once prayed for the borrowed time you’re living on to last a lifetime, and as you sit there, his arms around your waist, his face pressed against your chest, you don’t see why it couldn’t be so. Why you couldn’t stretch time however you want it to. You have no doubt you could, as long as you can remain with him holding you like this, letting you hold him like this.

After a small lifetime, you whisper, “We should go to bed.”

Ivar hums an agreement, but it takes a few more breaths before he leans back. His hair falls loosely behind him, pliant and soft after you lost track of time running your fingers through it, and you find yourself smiling, lovesick and foolish, at the proof of your work.

That night you don’t sleep. You talk, and kiss, and touch, and discover. And you make out of the borrowed time you live on a small eternity.


	33. Chapter 33

Ivar’s fingers move up and down the skin your backless dress leaves exposed, trailing over the invisible lines each night and each morning he barely grazes when he helps with the laces of your dress. You noticed, a few dozen repetitions of that simple caress ago, that Ivar lingers for a few fractions of a breath on the burn scars that peek over the right side of your back.

You’re nestled close to his chest, holding onto the amulet of Thor that hangs from his neck, tracing the small details on the metal Mjolnir. It is as easy as breathing, to lay here and bask and forget there’s a world past this.

It doesn’t surprise you, really, that it is so easy to sink into comfortable familiarity, into easy intimacy. It always was.

You found early on strings that tie you together, that make you move seamlessly against one another, both when his temper rises and yours to meet it, and when his walls crumble and you stop pretending yours ever existed.

“Tell me a secret.” Ivar prompts you, and when you lift your eyes you find him already focused on you.

“A secret?”

“I want to know something about you that no one else does.” He states simply, to which you frown.

“You know many things about me no one else knows.”

“One more, then.”

You look into his eyes, pale blue eyes you know by heart by now, and after swallowing past the knot in your throat, you offer,

“Sometimes…sometimes I wish I never returned to Eleusis. I wish I could have come here with my mother, accepted my Fate, lived another life,” You smile, “I wish I could have found you earlier.”

“Do you believe we would have met?”

This time you don’t resist the urge to lean in, to kiss him and delight yourself in the soft sound Ivar breathes over your lips, in the way his eyes always seem to hesitate to open after you kiss him.

Against his lips, with your eyes firmly set on his, you offer another truth you haven’t dared tell a soul,

“Now or then, it wouldn’t make a difference,” You shake your head softly, pressing your brow against his. The weight of how long it has been, how much has changed, since you first heard these very words from him settles in your chest, right before you whisper them, “I believe the Gods sent you to me.”

There are words you cannot utter at the tip of your tongue, and your foolish heart makes you think you see those same words written in Ivar’s eyes.

But the words that would become chains if uttered remain trapped within you, for Ivar steals your breath and your words with a bruising kiss.

He demands entrance to your mouth, which you freely give, and with a whimper you muffle against his lips, he makes you surrender to his kiss. To the heady feeling of his mouth moving over yours, of his tongue dancing with your own; to the electrifying feeling of his hand at the back of your head, of his fingers tightening over your loose hair.

You once told him if we name things, we make them real. You told him real things are dangerous things.

Real things can be broken, real things can be taken from you.

And you think even then he listened, even then he took your words to heart. Because in the urgency of his kiss you feel the edge of desperation you’ve felt for so long.

The need for more time.

____

Later that night, when your heart has been allowed reprieve and it settles back to a normal pace, you lay in the darkened room on your back, Ivar’s head resting on your chest, his arm solid and warm around you, his breaths making a thrill run down your spine every time they caress the top of your breasts.

You’ve known for a long time you want him, you’ve known for almost as long that Ivar wants you too.

Yet, because of what life and what its cruelty made out of him, because of what he made out of himself by building those walls; he stops himself, he stops you.

There’s no end to your desire to kiss him, to touch him, to draw each and every sound you can from his lips. And it seems Ivar shares the sentiment.

But there’s something to be said about the intimacy that grows when you share your life with someone for months before even daring to give yourself to them, and to your doom or your salvation, Ivar and you are capable of reading each other very well.

And so you notice when the quickened breaths no longer mean desire, but fear, but apprehension, but the desire to step back. And so you notice when his need for breath is not one he can satiate while you press kisses down the column of his throat, but one he needs to fulfill by holding you at bay, by grasping your hands and keeping them from exploring.

And you understand, you truly do. And you do not wish to push him, you do not wish to be yet another experience he will years later still feel the burn of humiliation from. But you do have the feeling it is Ivar’s mind, and his insecurities, and his past; what’s stopping him, and not his body.

Because you may not be the most experienced of women, but you are _quite_ sure you can distinguish a man’s arousal when it presses against you as you straddle him.

Still, you stop when he tells you to, you step back when he needs you to.

And as he steals your breath with hungry and demanding kisses, or with the softest touch of his mouth on yours, you try to ignore the pool of want low on your stomach that burns you from the inside; and as you hear him make a soft sound of pleasure against your lips, or whimpers your name in a shaky breath, you try to stop yourself from making him do it again and again and again.

Because for as many times he makes you stop and step back, he brings you back to him, tugs you closer and claims your mouth, drags hungry lips down your neck, lets curious hands wander and touch and grasp.

And you might lose your mind soon.

Still, much like what life has been for you since Fate took you to Ivar’s side, in between whirlwinds of chaos that steal your breath, there’s times of calm where you can forget there’s a world past him.

“What do you think could have been?” He starts, and you don’t think you’ll ever cease to be marveled at this new softness in his voice, this tranquility born out of feeling safe and…and _loved_. Gods, you can’t say it, but you hope he knows. “If you had come here instead of Greece.”

_You whisper how you don’t know who you’d be if you didn’t have two strings of Fate tugging you each on a different direction, and Ivar gives you the answer as if it were simple._

“I could have been happy.” You reply without hesitation.

Ivar’s answering smile is tired, but strangely bitter.

“You know, one of the last things my father told me was that happiness was nothing.”

You frown, “Do you agree with him?”

“I don’t know,” He confesses, settling better in his place, almost nuzzled against the column of your throat. “I don’t know what…what happiness feels like. If it feels like… _this_ , it is…

His words die, and you stay silent, feeling him take a deep breath. Ivar moves the arm that was a familiar weight over your waist, and extends his hand to grasp for your own, intertwining your fingers. You notice his gaze focused on the contrast of his hand against your own, before he speaks again, voice hushed,

“It is terrifying.”

This is the first time you’ve ever heard him admit to being afraid of something. You dare think it is the first time anyone has heard him admit to the existence of something that can terrify him.

It breaks at something within you that that something is something as simple, something as natural and as vital as happiness.

“It doesn’t have to be.” You whisper hoarsely, and you let your hand caress his hair, his shoulders, his back, wherever you can reach.

Much like earlier tonight, only this time you trace over the muscles of his shoulders not to delight yourself in the way you can make him tense and tremble under your touch, but instead hoping for the release of tension and the return of peace; you press firmly on his skin not so that you reassure yourself of what is yours, but so that he can be reassured you are there.

Ivar only hums in response, but doesn’t answer.

You close your eyes, leaning your cheek against the top of his head, for a few moments of weakness lingering in the world that could have been.

____

The dawn breaks before you’re ready for it to, finds you straddling Ivar’s hips and your hands moving with your words as you tell him of Constantinople and the wonders within it.

“They’d look at us strangely. What a pair, I suppose, the Varangian shieldmaiden and the Attic healer,” You chuckle at your own memories, “We’d speak in your language just to make them fearful.”

“You spoke in a language the Saxons understood and they still feared you.”

“Feared me?”

“Stithulf didn’t surrender you to me out of the kindness of his heart.” Ivar reminds you, bringing a softer smile to your lips.

“What a pair _we_ make, then. The Viking King and the Greek witch _._ ”

Ivar’s lips curve into a smile as well. A little bloodthirsty, but they always are.

And because you can, because in the few breaths that go by with his eyes on yours you find your heart quickening, because in the way his hands trail from your thighs up you know he feels the same; you lean down and capture his lips on yours.

When you pull back, you meet Ivar’s eyes and allow yourself to get lost in his smile. You don’t think in all the time you’ve been here you’ve seen him smile like this. Free, open, vulnerable.

Your hands find support on his chest, but you only have eyes for that smile. Not the Gods themselves could stop you from draping yourself over his body, capturing his mouth and tasting that smile on your tongue, feeling it pressed against your lips, hear it the soft little sound Ivar muffles against your kiss.

You pull back again, because you have to. Your hands on either side of his head, his strong body pliant and trusting underneath yours, his hair wild and mussed by your fingers, his lips still bearing the mark of your kiss, his eyes dark and hungry, his skin bearing the reddish tint of your effect on him.

Your breath stutters past your lips, and Gods, your heart will never settle to a normal pace after this. You aren’t going to be able to return to life as it was before this. Before him.

Whatever it is you are to say is quietened by the knock on the door. You move to get off your husband, but Ivar’s hands are firm on your legs, keeping you astride him.

He cranes his head back, and yells, “What!?”

“Ivar!” You hiss, looking at the door with wide eyes.

He dismisses your concerns with a soft squeeze of his hand on your thigh, “They won’t come in.”

They came in.

“You’re keeping y-…” Hvitserk stops, and his smile turns devious, “Well, good morning.”

“What do you want?” Ivar presses, but still keeps his hands on your legs, keeping you in your place. You could swear they even creep higher, settling on the curve of your ass.

Hvitserk keeps his eyes carefully trained on his brother, “Whitehair told me he isn’t going with you.”

“He isn’t. He and some of his men will stay here.”

In the moment Ivar and Hvitserk’s eyes meet, you have a feeling there’s a silent message relayed that you have no way if deciphering.

You frown down at Ivar, forgetting for a moment you’re supposed to want to move.

“Surely you don’t think I’m planning on leaving Kattegat.”

Ivar works his jaw, but ultimately shakes his head, “No, but there might be a few fools out there planning on making you leave this world.”

“What?”

“He’s right,” Hvitserk quips, and when you frown his way, you find him looking down at the floor, focused on pointedly _not_ looking at you. “You need someone watching your back. They wouldn’t be bold enough to try something while Ivar and the army is here, but…”

“I’m safe here, you’re with me,” You insist, eyes on Hvitserk even if he doesn’t look at you. Looking back at Ivar, you whisper, “I don’t need your guards.”

Ivar turns his eyes to you, and narrows his eyes, “Don’t argue.”

“When has telling me _that_ ever worked?” You ask him, incredulous.

Hvitserk clears his throat, and insists, “We need to know who will go in Whitehair’s stead.”

“You choose them, brother,” Ivar states simply, motioning with his head, “This is your plan, I trust you to know the right men for it.”

It surprises you a bit, and you have no doubt it surprises Hvitserk, but he doesn’t dwell on it, murmuring a few words and taking his leave.

“You can’t seriously intend to keep your best warriors with _me_ , Ivar.” You start as soon as the door closes behind the Prince.

Ivar grits his teeth, and lets his head fall back against the pillows.

“It is done. Now get off me, we have a day to get on with.”

“Don’t dismiss me,” You accuse, affronted. Ivar gives you a look that tells you this is your last opportunity to back down, and you almost want to ask him when that glare actually worked on you. “I will not be-…ah!”

Ivar’s hands tighten on your waist, and he lifts you with ease, throwing you off him and leaving you to land on your side of the bed with a huff.

You look at him with wide eyes, with quickened breaths that have nothing to do with the surprise. You’ve felt under your own hands the strength of his shoulders, of his arms, of his back; ever since you arrived here you’ve let your eyes wander and your thoughts get away from you, but…Gods, it is something else entirely to see his strength in full display, to have him lift you like you weigh nothing, to feel the muscles of his arms and chest working.

“Ivar!” You complain, but he ignores you. He sits up, broad back turned to you, not sparing a second thought to the absolutely impure thoughts that are running through your mind at the display of strength.

Your traitorous eyes follow his arm, his shoulder blades, as he grips the chains dangling over the bed and moves his body out of the bed. As you watch him, you can’t help but despise the shirt he still wears.

You realize, almost affronted, almost offended, that you’ve never seen his bare chest. You wonder if he has ink traces, you wonder…

Gods, you’re hopeless.

Your head falls back against the pillows, and you close your eyes with a shaky sigh.

____

The feast to send off the warriors that will go raid Strepshire starts earlier in the day than previous ones. Once, you would have been naïve enough to believe that meant it would end earlier too.

You stand at his side when he raises his voice, addresses your people about the upcoming battle and what they are to ask the Gods to grant them, both across the sea and once they return, once the bitter winter settles upon Kattegat. You raise your cup alongside his, thank the people before you with a bow of your head and a smile; and take a seat on a throne that has never felt as welcoming.

Eventually, night progresses and you mingle amongst the people you know and those you don’t, and you find yourself in a small moment of seclusion, looking over the feast with a tranquil smile on your lips.

Your husband’s voice draws your attention to where he sits surrounded by his warriors and shieldmaidens, hand on Hviterk’s shoulder as they talk and laugh.

You cannot keep your eyes off him, watching with a smile on your lips as he addresses his men. You truly cannot believe he sometimes doesn’t see the way he inspires them, the way they admire him, the way his words light fires in the hearts of his warriors and his shieldmaidens.

Ivar is finishing strong words to his people when his eyes meet yours across the room. With the word these Norsemen have for a toast on their lips, the people around him honor him with raised cups. He answers their toast with his own, but his eyes remain on yours.

Smile widening in pride and something far more foolish, you raise your own cup, quietly, just for him, and drink as well.

“You’re drooling, witch.” Valdis’ voice startles you, and you turn your eyes away from the King and towards her. She laughs, heavy hand on your shoulder, and you answer only with a roll of your eyes even as a small chuckle leaves your lips.

She holds you to her side and walks you to the women of the apothecary, who greet you with smiles that you return and a few knowing glances that you pretend to ignore.

When the ruckus dies down you once again find your way back to Ivar, sitting by his side with your head on his shoulder and your eyes on the dancing flames a few feet away.

You could close your eyes and surrender to sleep like this, you realize. After almost not sleeping the previous night, the familiar hum of Ivar’s voice as he talks with Hvitserk lulls you into safety.

Still, you stay awake, masking a yawn with a kiss to his shoulder and wondering when it became as easy as breathing to move with him, around him, as if you were tied by the same string. When it became as familiar as the feeling of safety and peace in your chest and yet remained as thrilling and electrifying as running to cross over that stream in Eleusis.

After a while you find yourself thinking once again about what’s to come tomorrow, and all those days after.

Your fingers skim over his forearm silently until Ivar turns his hand around, and lets you intertwine his fingers with your own.

“About your guards…” You start, but the Viking sighs, interrupting you.

“Not this again.”

“I am not the one going to war, Ivar. I don’t need guards.”

He settles better in his seat, turning most of his body towards you and regarding you with stubborn exasperation.

“You’re grown too used to getting your way,” He states, to which you only answer with an incredulous look. Still, he pushes on, “But this isn’t something you’ll make me change my mind on.”

“Have I made you change your mind before?” You taunt with a smirk, stupidly delighted in the way he rolls your eyes at you. After a breath, you lean even closer and insist, “Love, listen to me, I-…”

You realize what you’ve said, and choke on your own words. Your eyes are wide when they meet his, and for a second you dare hope he hasn’t noticed.

But, of course, he has. Ivar stares at you in stunned silence for a few breaths, but he shakes it off before you do.

He leans closer, presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth,

“I’m listening, but I’m not changing my mind… _love_.” His smile is devious, and mocking, and irresistible, and Gods, you’re going to learn to regret ever giving in, aren’t you?

Forcing your eyes to stop giving in to the allure of his mouth, you return your gaze to him.

“Why is now any different than when you went to defend Dublin?”

“Because I knew I was going to return quickly when we went to Dublin.”

“You won’t spend winter away from Kattegat.” You state, stubborn.

Ivar leans closer again, kisses you before insisting against your lips, “It is smart to consider all possibilities, you know that.”

“You still d-…” Your words are muffled against his lips when he kisses you again, and when he leans back you say, “You can’t shut me up by doing that.”

“I can try.”

He kisses you again, and again, and again, each time more passionately than the last. Ivar’s teeth close teasingly over your bottom lip, and he soothes the sting with a flick of his tongue. It draws from you a soft little sound that is muffled against his mouth, he seals a pleased smile against your lips.

You pull back with quickened breaths and hold the advancing Viking back with a hand on his throat.

Your husband only smiles, eyes dark in a way that makes a thrill run down your spine, and leans closer still, forcing your hand to press tighter against his throat, daring you.

“ _Behave_.” You warn him, only half-serious, the words quiet even if your wide and stupid smile bares every truth.

But there’s a glint in his eye, an openness in his smile, that makes you give in, that makes you use that hand you still have holding onto his throat to cup his jaw and bring his lips to yours.

Because he looks happy.

Because you close your eyes, and you still feel the weight of his body and of his pain against you, you can still hear the almost fragile whisper of _I don’t know what…what happiness feels like. If it feels like this…_

And you understand what it was that made Lord Hades tear the earth in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ll get back to regular programming soon, they’ll put their feet back on the ground and realize there’s still Christians to kill and choices to make soon; just let me write a soft and happy Ivar for a bit okay?


	34. Chapter 34

“If you move the covers, I will divorce you.” You grumble, refusing to open your eyes.

“Hm, you’ve taken a liking for threatening me.” Ivar complains, voice roughened by sleep. Still, he stops whatever foolish plan he had about getting out of bed.

Biting back words that you’ve taken a liking for it because it very clearly works, you reach blindly for him, seeking his warmth. Your head finds a home somewhere on his chest, and you settle in your place with a content hum.

But it doesn’t seem to be close enough, and Ivar puts strong and confident hands on your sides, and moves you closer, leaving you draped over his chest.

Inevitable, and he knew it when he made the choice to move you, that your legs would intertwine with his. Your left thigh drapes over his as your arm does the same over his waist.

It feels cold and frailly thin under you, but you didn’t expect any different, and though the passing thought of fearing hurting him crosses through your mind, you remain where you are.

Of course you notice the tension that takes a hold of him, the instinct to pull back that makes his arms stiffen at your sides, the immediate reaction of wanting to push you away that stutters his breath; but more importantly than those, you notice the release of that tension, the arm that settles over your back as the most comfortable of weights, the breath leaving his lips and the way his breathing seems to grow more calm even with your weight over his chest.

“How much longer?” You ask quietly, already able to hear the characteristic sounds of Kattegat waking up.

Ivar turns slightly to take a look at the sun that peers shyly into the room, before settling back against the pillows.

“A while.”

____

It is almost wordlessly that you set to get ready for the day, for the departure of your husband and his men to Strepshire. Ivar sits on the edge of your bed and motions for you to get closer, which you do, turning your back to him and offering the laces of your dress.

A shiver runs down your spine when the backs of his fingers run up your bare skin, not even caring about the laces he is supposed to be working on. You offer a low call of his name, a warning, btu Ivar only huffs a breath, free hand bringing you closer.

He presses a few kisses on the curve of your spine, burning currents of electricity left behind by every touch of his lips. Your breath stutters its way past your parted lips, and seemingly pleased with your reaction, he leans back, and finally laces up your dress.

Oh, you hate him, you truly do.

Turning around, your hand absently running through his loose hair and gently tilting his head back, you meet his smug and satisfied gaze, and resist the urge to take revenge in the little game he chose to play.

Instead, because the cold sun shines over your back and reminds you time is scarce now, you take a small breath to take him in, the armor that now covers him, the slight tension that accompanies him, the hard lines of his face that tell you a part of him is already on that battlefield.

“Your braids, I…I can do them.” You offer after a moment of hesitation.

_I want to._

Ivar considers you with a tilt of his head, but eventually shrugs and motions for you to find a place at his back on the bed.

You lean up on your knees, and recalling the braids you saw him wearing so long ago, when he sat on that chariot, saw you kill, and offered you nothing but bloodthirsty smile.

Your fingers start making quick work of his hair, and Ivar hums, dropping his head forward a little.

There’s nothing that could keep the delighted laugh from leaving your lips at the way you seem to affect him with your touch, and Ivar grunts at your happiness.

“Not a word.” He warns you, but you still bear a wide and foolish smile.

Because you can, because there’s nothing stopping you, you lean forward and press a kiss to the side of his jaw, and rest your chin on his shoulder.

“Your secrets are safe with me, husband.”

You return to your work, and before long you are done. And you are proud of the result, you dare say.

“I want a truth.”

“What?”

Ivar turns slightly towards you, eyebrows lifted, “In exchange for the braids. Isn’t that the deal you proposed, wife?”

“Fine,” You concede even though he is bending the rules, “Ask away.”

But the levity of the moment dies with the silence that follows your prompt.

Ivar’s eyes search yours, an urgent edge in the way he studies you that makes you anxious.

He breathes deeply before starting, “If Stithulf were to die today-…”

Dread drops on your stomach like a stone, and you have to resist the urge to move away from him.

“Ivar…”

But he remains unyielding, jaw set tight and in his eyes a mix of desperation and fury that breaks at something within you.

With an angry breath, he insists, “If Stithulf were to die today, what would you choose?”

“Don’t ask me to choose, please.”

Your words tremble past your lips, and you hold his gaze, noticing there’s in his expression the threat of softening, the pull to give in to what you ask out of him.

Three times you’ve pleaded with Ivar. Past everything he did to you, past every chain that threatened to break you, past every moment where you were lost and scared and desperate; only three times you’ve begged him for something.

You asked the mad man that took you captive and forced you to be his wife to let you see the Völva, to let you talk to someone that can understand, to let you ask the Gods -his, yours- for answers.

You asked the man you married to tell you a truth, to honor your promise to be bound to him before the Gods themselves by granting you honesty about what he wanted out of you, what you meant to him.

And now.

But Ivar curls his lips into a snarl, brings cold fury to his eyes.

Stubbornly, petulantly, he insists, “I want an answer.”

“I gave you one. The answer is I-I can’t choose.”

But Ivar presses, gesturing with his arm, “You’re going to have to choose eventually!”

“I know!” You yell back, before stopping yourself with a sigh, and dropping your head to your hands. “I know. But not today.”

“So we are supposed to live with this? Like this?” He insists, shaking his head, “I don’t know whether you’ll leave me, you don’t know it either. What kind of life is that, hm?”

You shrug, “The kind we are living.”

“Oh, stop trying to sound wise.” Ivar grunts, rolling his eyes. It still manages to draw a smile out of you.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, love.”

“That you’ll choose me.” His answer is unwavering, easy, simple. And yet it doesn’t fail to make your heart threaten to shatter.

“I can’t…I can’t choose yet,” You insist, searching his gaze, begging silently for the distance to fade, for the coldness to give in. “Try to understand, I…I am Greek, I am Hiereia, I am Attica’s Anassa. I was all that before I became Queen of Kattegat, before I became your wife.”

_They loved me and I loved them, long before I learned to love you._

“And you leave me with no choice, again.”

You sigh, “You were always able to choose, Ivar.”

“No, no I am not!” His voice raises again, and when he returns his eyes to yours, anger and restlessness and resentment, you hear memories as if they were spilling from his lips now, _you forget you’ve chained me as much as you say I’ve chained you_. His brow trembles as he frowns, the mask threatens to fall and the armor to turn to dust, and you can only stare back at him with wide eyes, “You took my choice from me, from the beginning.”

There’s no answer you can give to that, no words with which you can speak of the way your heart both soars and breaks. And so, you don’t try to.

“You have a war to fight on,” You remind him, eyes searching his, “Focus on _that_ , focus on making sure you and our people return safe. The rest…the rest doesn’t matter.”

It surprises you, how true your words are.

“And if we capture Sitithulf?”

You chase off the bitter taste of guilt with the press of your lips against his, softly, lovingly. You quieten the voices of the ghosts that remind you of failure with the soft breath you draw out of him.

Because at the tip of your tongue there are words you do not utter. A dare, a command, a plea.

_Don’t._

____

You say goodbye at the docks, but the kiss you will remember is the one you shared before you had to face the world that existed beyond the doors to your room.

Ivar’s hand is rough and demanding on the back of your head as he makes you tilt your head back to meet his kiss. He steals your breath and the steadiness of your stance with his kiss, and when your lips part, your hand gripping at the neckline of his armor keeps him leaning towards you, his brow against yours.

Your eyes meet, and all you offer is a smile before you once again test his Greek.

“ _You better return to me, Varangian._ ”

“ _It’s been a while since you called me that._ ” He replies, his Greek accented and rough but still good, and filling you with pride and a foolish joy.

“ _Husband._ ” You correct with a tilt of your eyebrow, and he nods.

“ _Wife_.”

“Good,” You praise in his tongue, before switching to your own again, “ _My love._ ”

Confusion shines in pale blue eyes, but you don’t tell him the meaning of your words just yet, motioning with your head to the boats at his back and only smiling wider at his affront.

You watch him discard the crutches and board the ship, and you nod your goodbye to the warriors that pass you by as they too prepare to depart.

A part of you resents being left behind, resents the choices that made you who you are and so made you unable to join him.

_“Shieldmaiden. You fight like…like men do,” You start one night, startling the Varangian, who lifts cautious green eyes to you. “My mother never did.”_

_“She fought in her own way.”_

_“She wasn’t there when my father died,” You point out, and the shieldmaiden blows a heavy breath as she straightens in her seat. “Is that why you learned to fight? To be there when the people you love die? To…protect them?”_

_“No, little one, I learned because…” She stops herself, and grabs the sheathed sword she kept by her side, handle pointed towards you in a familiar gesture. “I offered you this earlier today, and you refused it, told me you wanted to be a healer. Like you, long ago I made a choice, and my choice was to be a shieldmaiden. You chose a path, no worse or better than mine or your mother’s. No different either.”_

_You frown, and after a few moments press, “What are you saying, Sieghild?”_

_She smiles, in that crooked way of hers, “I’m saying you don’t need a sword to fight, and you don’t need a shield to be able to protect the people you love.”_

When you go back to your room to fetch a cloak to go on with your day, you find on the bed a small golden piece you didn’t leave there.

You lift with a wide smile on your lips a comb headpiece made up of small gold leaves, and recall an old conversation, when you told Ivar of your mother’s old tradition of buying something while she waited for your father to return from war, be it a dress or a piece of jewelry.

Who would have thought the mighty Ivar the Boneless was capable of a soft heart?

Maybe it is just a result of how utterly he has stolen yours.

____

For all the time you spent thinking about his departure, and worrying about his return; you never let yourself truly think about how he would _be gone_.

About how past the worry for his safety, past the thrill of expecting his return, there would be so much longing. About how you miss him, about how true it is that your life without him in it is not the same.

Time goes on regardless, and more than once during your days you find your eyes searching hopelessly at that horizon, and on more than one night you wake up cold not understanding why. But time goes on.

On your stroll through the market, you run into Freydis, and she greets you warmly before falling to an easy walk beside you.

Silence is comfortable and easy, reminding you of the days spent in Eleusis’ forests haunting with Galla, in those short months after you abandoned the Silk Roads before you were to lose it all in flames.

That is, until Freydis gets this glint in her eye, and turns to you with a smile as sweet as it is poisonous, a smile that speaks of the Goddess whose favor you see when you look at her: Melinöe, dual Goddess of viciousness and comfort.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say the King truly is bewitched, my friend.”

You still breathe out a laugh, even if a pit of something uncomfortable and wary sits at your stomach.

“But you do know better,” You correct lowly, “I am no witch.”

She laughs lightly, daintily. It still speaks of poison, it always does. You don’t think you could care for her the way you do if she didn’t have her own share of darkness.

Keeping a small smirk on her lips, she argues, “All women are.”

You offer her a small shrug of your shoulders, but stay silent, because even if you know where she is going with this conversation, you refuse to give her an easy time.

She says nothing else, but when you get to the apothecary, you watch as Freydis, with her back turned to you, takes a deep breath.

There’s something shaky about the way she steels her resolve before turning to you, but the blonde still meets your gaze with unwavering fearlessness.

“I know you seem comfortable at the King’s side, but I still fear for you.”

Your eyebrows lift, “Fear for me?”

“I know how miserable you once were, forced to be at a mad man’s side. A woman like you doesn’t belong with a monster.” She whispers, eyes on yours and fully aware she is giving away her secret.

In your head you hear Ivar’s words of a few days ago: _To you I still am the monster that imprisoned you, nothing changed since the first time you saw me._ The distinct feeling of having said that before, only not to him.

No. To _her_.

Leave it to Freydis to admit a betrayal with resolve shining proudly on her blue eyes.

“Freydis,” You call out coldly, straightening in your chair and regarding her with barely narrowed eyes and a slight tilt to your head. When she sets falsely innocent eyes on you, you allow yourself a smile, “You don’t have to be afraid _for_ me.”

There’s a hint of apprehension the moment she understands the meaning behind your words, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t satisfy you. The girl shakes it off quickly enough, and extends a hand over the table, as if attempting to grasp yours.

You stay still, and she whispers, “I was only worried for you, truly. I know firsthand what men in power are capable of. I know what _Ivar the Boneless_ is capable of.”

“Funny way you have of showing your love for me.” You quip with narrowed eyes.

Valdís takes a seat next to you and passes you a cup of scalding hot tea, unwillingly joining the interaction. Her eyes go from Freydis to you, and for a moment you think she will remain silent, but how could you expect that out of the former shieldmaiden.

“What’s going on?” She asks, frown on her face, and you can’t find an answer that doesn’t make the anger and the pain and the shock _real_ , so you don’t give any.

Freydis insists, eyes on you intensely and hand still stretched, “I did it for you, I wanted to help you.”

You remain silent, but her sky-blue eyes still search yours with intensity. Your stupid heart wants to believe her, and your bitter memory reminds you that what you did to Narses is not so different from what she wants you to do to the King, or what she would do to him in your place.

Still, you straighten yourself in your seat and with more softness than your pride wants you to show, you beseech,

“You didn’t lie to my husband to help _me_ , Freydis. Don’t lie, not to me.”

Valdís is already a broad and imposing woman, but when the shieldmaiden straightens her back and looks down at Freydis, even your blood runs cold.

Her voice is barely above a hiss when she states, “I warned you, girl.”

But Freydis doesn’t take her eyes off of you, her hand still stretched before you, her gaze still probing at your mind, “I swear I only wanted to help you.”

“Help her get killed? Like you almost did when you lied to those merchants?” The other woman insists.

Realization dawns on you, and your lips part, your breath leaves you.

_Your eyes set firmly on Ivar’s, the death of the Arabs that offered you mercy still heavy on your conscience, “Someone told you. You weren’t close enough to hear. Someone went to you and told you of what that man offered me.”_

Your words are horrified, are broken, are hurt, “You’ve betrayed me before. More…more than once. How many times?”

Freydis interrupts you with a frantic shake of her head, and finally leans the distance separating you through the table and grabs your arm. You stay still, eyes on hers.

“I helped you. You now know exactly what you can get away with.” She promises, but you are quick to shake off her hand and her words.

Standing up from the table and shrugging on your cloak, you bite out, “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

But the girl stands up as well, almost chasing after you and keeping her venomous and sweet eyes on you with determination. You remain silent, and she speaks again, this time only for you to hear,

“Ivar didn’t harm you, did he? He could have, he has to others before, you know of his reputation. He could have forced you to break, but he didn’t, and you know why.”

“Freydis, you don’t und-…”

Her hand wraps over your wrist, trapping it and pressing the bracelet Ivar gifted you tight against your skin. “You now know the kind of power you have over him, you c-…”

You offer a snarl, “Get your hand off me, _now_.”

Freydis lifts her chin, eyes cold.

But her hand lets go of you.

You once noticed that Ivar knows to fight your fire with his own, but that before your coldness he falters. Freydis has faltered when your voice raises, when your temper flares; but, you realize when your might meets hers, that she will meet ice with burning coldness, that she will strike with cruelty against your distance.

“You’re starting to sound like _him_ , witch.” She quips, poisonous. After a breath, in the barely-there widening of her eyes she gives away that she realized she pushed too far.

“It is not a smart thing to attempt to insult the man I love, Freydis,” You tell her, and she meets your gaze fearlessly. Lowering your voice, you lean close and promise her, “You told me the night we met that you’d once escaped death by placing the right words in the right ears. Be careful not to find death by attempting something similar.”

Still, because you know what she is made of, because it is made of something very similar to you, Freydis insists,

“You broke your own rules, you know this. You’ll reg-…”

You don’t let her finish, and even if her words drip with the same ambition, the same guile, the same ruthlessness you once held; you still turn your back to her and walk out of the shop, the door slamming behind you.

____

The next morning you wake up with the break of dawn, and with curt words directed to the man tasked with protecting you, you set off beyond the walls.

A part of you feels restrained when within the walls, in a way you hadn’t felt before, not even while you were kept as barely above a prisoner, bound to follow Ivar’s every whim.

There’s a tension in you when you have to walk those streets now, the heavy realization there’s no one you can trust. Not Freydis and her familiar darkness, Valdís and her easy smiles, not Hvitserk and his warmth, not anyone.

You feel alone, alone and angry and betrayed.

Whitehair accompanies you silently, a shadow at your back, but you almost pay him no mind, excited and filled with energy at the prospect of walking freely through the woods, searching for whatever small, young, or weak plants you can borrow from Mother Gaia to care for yourself when winter comes.

Even if you are aware that Kattegat’s climate is a cold and harsh one compared to the Mediterranean, you can still feel the harshness of winter puncturing the air, drying the ground. Persephone prepares for her descent to her husband, and her mother weeps again. 

You busy yourself with a small marsh violet, trying to get the roots intact and handling the plant as little as possible so you can replant it safely. Too focused on the delicacy needed for the task, you miss the sound of the falcon’s wings and are startled when the bird lands in the soft earth in front of you.

You catch yourself thinking _Freyja_ , but quickly remind yourself these are messengers of Hermes. You look back at the yellow eyes of the predator and tilt your head to the side.

“Why are you not scared of me?” You ask softly, reaching with shaking fingers to find the bird accepts your touch.

“Because he knows you.” Someone says from behind you, in a voice you know so well.

Your hand freezes, your breath catches in your throat, your eyes fill with tears.

A ghost.

_“It feels like a summer ago that the Daughter of Eleusis returned triumphant, it feels a moment ago we drove the Saracens away and joked we would wage war against the whole world,” Nostalgia clings to her words even if a smile trembles on her lips, “I can still hear the music we’d dance to during the Thesmophoria, I can still taste that rose wine you made me steal, I can still remember what it was like before the Christians and their God,” For a moment anger curls at her lip, fire burns at her dark eyes, but she returns to the tired rage soon enough. “I pray the years don’t take that from me. If the Gods let me return here one day-…” Her voice falters, and she lowers her face for a moment before she finds resolve again, and once again lifts her gaze to the horizon, “If I am granted another chance to be here again, I wish for nothing other than to have your ghost with me. Sitting at my side, just like this.”_

“Galla.” You breathe, and move to turn towards the woods at your back, where you heard her voice, but her sharp warning stops you.

“Don’t turn around. I want to keep the men following you from noticing me.” She says. Once the surprise and relief die off, you find your breathing to be fast and shallow.

“H-How are you alive? Stithulf sa-…”

She stops you with a whisper of your name, and hearing the word with the accent of your people and not the hard consonants and drawled sounds of the Northmen makes you weaker, somehow.

“He ambushed us, but couldn’t kill us all. We have been trying to find passage to Scandinavia.”

“How many did we lose? Wh-…”

“It is not safe to speak here. We can talk later.”

“I cannot return with you, Galla.” You say, even if you are certain your people could travel fast enough in the dead of night to be far away from this cold city before the King hears of your absence.

“I know. But our people still need to hear from their Anassa.”

“Don’t call me that.” You beg, eyes closed.

“If you renounce the title you renounce the right to tell me what to do, my friend.” She teases, reminding you of warm fires and nights under the sky of Eleusis.

The thought of returning to that life, of having friends and elders at your side again, of returning to fertility festivals and harvest celebrations, of your language and your customs surrounding you again; the thought shouldn’t be as bittersweet, it shouldn’t carry this seed of pain or nostalgia.

But it does.

You shake your head to get rid of such thoughts, and instead pet the rapt falcon once again.

“How will I know when to meet you?”

“I will send Zephyr to the skies to fetch you.”

Nodding your assent, you finish plucking the plant from the earth with shaking hands. Putting it softly in your basket, you smile a goodbye to Galla’s pet before he takes to the skies again.

“We will meet again, my friend.”

A part of you that is scared it is all a mirage wants to beg her not to leave you behind, but when you close your hands into fists you feel the cold press of your wedding ring on your finger and you realize there’s something else you cannot leave behind.

“Stay safe, Galla.”

A rustling of leaves, and they are both gone. You have to grab fistfuls of cold dirt to keep yourself from chasing after them.

 _They’re alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and Zephyr is the name of the Greek deity of west wind, known as the gentler of the winter deities, the bringer of spring. Make of that what you will :)


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This basically has no Ivar, for obvious reasons, so I know it is long but I didn’t want to leave you guys with two weeks before the story moves forward Ivar-wise. Sorry for the long chapter, and sorry if this isn’t very much to your liking, I tried lol.
> 
> Again with me and animals and references to deities: howling dogs are symbols of Melinöe, Greek Goddess of madness, nightmares, and ghosts; though there’s a duality to be associated with her, that for the sake of this story I took to her influence being both of nightmares and dreams, of madness and comfort; because she is represented in Freydis (or I attempt that) and she isn’t just a bitch, y’know? Melinöe is also considered a daughter of Persephone but in some stuff she is put together with her as one and referred to as a nymph and queen too.

You don’t think you’ve been able to lower your eyes from the skies since that day. Almost two weeks have gone by, and you start thinking maybe you imagined her voice behind you, imagined a ghost whispering somehow they had survived.

_Sitting carefully on the ground, batting away the hand that Galla extends to try and help you, you start, “You know Lysander wants to make you his.”_

_She doesn’t miss a beat when she replies casually, “He has already.”_

_Galla only snorts at your scandalized expression._

_“I_ mean _make you his wife.” You explain with a shake of your head, returning your gaze ahead._

_“I won’t leave you behind.”_

_“You would be the wife of the most powerful man in free Greece.”_

_“Or I could be the second in command of the most powerful woman in free Greece,” She retorts just as easily. After a moment, Galla sighs, “The Gods brought us together as children, my friend. Time couldn’t separate us, nor distance._

_She lifts her hand to touch the side of your waist, where the bandages still press at the burnt skin._

_“Not even death could separate us,” She vows, before offering a smile and turning back ahead, “Your Fate and mine are intertwined.”_

And now here you sit, on a familiar clearing somewhere near Kattegat’s coast, watching the sun rise and not knowing how to decide between looking at the sea waiting for those ships to return or at the sky waiting for the falcon to guide you.

You hear soft footsteps behind you, but you do not turn to watch Freydis approach. The heavy winds blow at your hair, your gaze focused on the sea that accompanies the winds in their chaos.

“What are you doing here?”

“I want you to know I am sorry.” Freydis whispers from behind you, the pain that forces her voice to break making your eyes fall closed as if you can keep the compassion away by guarding back tears.

You offer her a nod and, as always, she understands your silent words, sitting beside you on the cold grass. Almost shoulder to shoulder but not quite.

Saying you forgive her would hurt your pride, saying there’s nothing to be sorry for would be a lie.

“You betrayed me.” Is what you state, a reminder both for her and you.

Freydis nods her head, not hesitating.

“I did.”

You smile, but it is watery and broken and weak.

“I should kill you.”

A few beats of silence, and…

“You should.”

“But I won’t,” You confess, angry at yourself, smiling at your own weakness, “Too soft a heart.”

“It isn’t a fault.”

“Isn’t it?” You quip bitterly.

Freydis sighs, “You are warm, and good, and soft. Don’t…don’t let this place change that, harden you more than it already has.”

“I have no reason to heed your advice now, Freydis.”

“Yet you do anyways.”

You consider her words in silence, accompanied only by the distant sound of a busy world at your backs and the waves breaking at the coast in front of you.

“I-…once you and I would have been one and the same,” Your arms wrap around your legs, bringing your knees closer to your chest, like you can keep the cold hand of regret from gripping your heart if you hold yourself tight enough. “Back in my city, in my kingdom…I did all you ask out of me now. I fooled a man into loving me, into believing everything I told him. I could have told him he was a God, and he would have walked this earth as if he were one. It is a terrible thing, what love can do to us,” Your last words fall from your lips in a breath that could be a sob, but with your lips pressed tightly into a line you breathe deeply and continue, “I did to him all I know I could do now. I laid with him, I held and kissed him, I whispered promises in his ear, I gave him my hand, I…I told him I loved him.”

Freydis says nothing for a few moments, but then her voice, rougher than usual, not so carefully feminine, not so mechanically dainty, asks, “What happened to him?”

You offer her a shrug, “He died. For his arrogance, for my hesitation, for…our mistakes,” Resting your chin on your knees, you keep your gaze on the horizon and explain, “He was my friend, I knew him since we were children and when I returned to Attica he was…”

She offers her strength when your words die, “In power.”

“I knew he wanted me. We women always do, don’t we?” A small chuckle, you don’t know from whose lips, “A-And I used it against him, I…hardened my heart and I pretended to want him too, to love him too.”

“In exchange for what?”

“His strength, his army. When the Byzantines sent their Christians to…convert us, he and his men fought for our frontiers, cut down their numbers.” You answer automatically, and past the pain there’s pride making your voice unwavering.

“Nothing, compared to what you could get now.”

“And yet I don’t want it, not like this. Not this time.” You vow, jaw set tight and eyes certain when they find her own. Freydis offers only a nod to signal she accepts your choice -or pretends to-, and silence reigns for a while between you.

It feels comfortable, familiar, even if you know it shouldn’t.

“Does Ivar know of that man?”

“Of course he does,” You reply instantly, turning to her with the beginning of a cruel smile on your lips, “Surely you don’t think I trust you more than I trust him.”

She returns the same kind of smile, “Once, you did.”

“And look where that trust has left me.”

She scoffs, “You speak as if trusting him was any better. After all he did to you.”

“Freydis…” You warn, and the blond shrugs, looking ahead with stubborn determination.

“Not a smart thing, I know.” She acquiesces anyways, remembering your words from the last time you talked.

She stays silent, reminding you starkly of that night where she found you pleading with Gods that didn’t answer to explain why your Fate had to be so, reminding you of how she sat next to you in silence, hesitant at how to be honest, true, soft.

But yet she remains at your side. A prisoner awaiting judgement, or a snake awaiting the chance to strike, you do not know.

“Why did you do it? Why tell him of that merchant?”

“I wanted to…understand. I wanted answers. To whether you’d leave if given the chance, to whether he’d believe you would.”

“That’s…”

“Cruel?” She finishes for you, before offering another shrug. “Maybe. He has done worse. _You_ have done worse.”

She has a point.

“Why…why make him believe I see a monster when I look at him?”

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.” You reply, maybe more forcefully than you should have, but you’re frankly tired of games.

“Because it is what he already believed,” She answers simply, as if the answer is clear for everyone to see. “You know the man you married; he needs certainty. He held on to the certainty that you’d leave him, and I had no interest in seeing him believe otherwise.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know if the case is other,” Freydis shrugs, and turns to you, “Is it true? Do you love him?”

Your mouth curves into a half-smile, “You expect me to trust you with a secret _now_?”

Freydis falters, and loses a bit of her edge, a bit of her unwavering resolve.

You think Ivar isn’t the only one that needs certainty, but you keep your mouth shut.

She offers a sigh as she turns to face the horizon, “It isn’t a secret.”

You leave her behind on that hill overlooking the sea, hearing the faint sound of dogs howling in the distance, and it feels like you leave behind a part of you.

____

Days pass, and the dreams don’t cease, and you wake up still hearing hissing snakes and howling dogs and…Gods, you might lose your mind soon.

You could tell yourself it is the dreams, the messages from the Gods, what makes you sit down in front of her in the apothecary, a mortar in your hands. You could tell yourself it is morbid curiosity, the desire to hear how she has betrayed you once again, what makes your movements so alike hers that first time when she sat before you and offered you a smile.

You could tell yourself many things, but we don’t change the truth by spinning a different tale.

Freydis doesn’t lift her gaze, but you notice her take a deep breath as you start grinding the herbs across from her.

“You vowed once that I would regret it if I ever betrayed you,” She states, and her dainty voice wavers. Freydis closes her eyes, “Well, I regret it. I…you have no idea how much I regret what I did.”

“I don’t care about regret, Freydis.”

Her expression falters, and you could swear there’s tears shining in her blue eyes. Her lip trembles, and…Gods, this is the first time you have seen her without a mask on, isn’t it?

“I-I love you,” She offers. An excuse, a plea, an accusation. “I…I…”

“What you did, you did out of love?” You ask, spitting back the words she said when the bodies of those merchants were still fresh. When you were surrounded by the evidence of Ivar’s cruelty and the results of her games.

“I did.” She promises, voice frail and small.

You look into her eyes, and ponder on the weight of such a small word.

“Narses tried silencing me, pushed me to be meek and obedient. He called it love, I stayed quiet and pretended that was what love was,” You tell her, voice quiet, “My mother left me without any explanation, handed my freedom to a man I didn’t know. I’m sure she called it love, but she isn’t here for me to tell her it felt like…abandonment.

Your gaze lowers to your hands, and it is both to you and to her that you admit the truth as the words leave your lips,

“Ivar put chains on me and dragged me all the way to his kingdom, forced me to be his wife. If you were to have asked him then, he would have called it love, though now both of us would admit that it was something else.

She answers with silence, and it unsettles you, but you don’t loosen the straight line of your spine, you don’t lose the hardened edge in your eyes as you lift them back up to meet Freydis’.

“You played games with me as a pawn, you were responsible for the death of innocents, you _hurt_ me,” You bite back the anger, but it still resonates in your voice as it raises, “You toyed with Ivar’s head, you caused him pain. And you called it love,” You spit out the last words, but Freydis holds her ground, not hesitating in holding your gaze, “That isn’t love, Freydis. Betrayal isn’t love.

A barely-there flinch, but you notice it. And a part of you that you shouldn’t allow to _be_ is cruelly delighted in hurting her.

“Trusting someone, trusting them enough to fulfill their promises, trusting them enough to be honest, that I _do_ call love.”

She lifts her chin, and insists, although there isn’t accusation in her tone when she speaks.

“You trusted me, once.”

“I did. Because I loved you, and I love you still,” And there it is where your resolve falters, at the admission of why it hurts the way it does, why it stings and tears and breaks. Your smile is hopeless and it trembles on your lips, “You were the first kind face I saw here, you were-…you _are_ someone that makes me feel…safe.”

“You make me feel safe too,” She confesses, before frowning and lowering her gaze. “You make everything complicated. Everything stops making sense and I…I shouldn’t have done what I did. I…would you believe me if I told you I am jealous of him?”

And for a moment the smell of mint overpowers anything else. You shake your head, dispelling the scent and any other thoughts.

_You watch carefully as Ivar extends curious fingers to one of the newer plants you brought in. He plucks a leaf without any consideration, but you hold your tongue and watch him bring it to his nose._

_“Mint,” You tell him without prompting, “Mint was a nymph, once. Did I ever tell you of why Hiereiai don’t take their marriage vows lightly?”_

_His lips pull into a slow smile as his eyes turn to you, and he shakes his head._

_“Well, the God and Goddess of the Underworld are, in their own way, symbols of loyalty, and fidelity. They never stray, they never betray one another._

_You cross the distance between you and take a seat next to Ivar on the cushioned lounge, watching with a small smile as he continues to twirl the small leaf of mint between his fingers._

_“Of course, there are those who try testing that. The tale goes that there was a nymph that used to stride through the fields of flowers with the maiden my Goddess once was. This nymph, a beautiful and alluring woman, was…fascinating enough that Lord Hades desired her, and made her his, long before he set eyes on who then would be his wife._

_You settle better on your place as you recall the old story, a story you have known and cherished for so long that, like so many others, it feels like a part of your own story by now._

_“But when he abducted my Goddess and made her Queen, the nymph was forgotten, discarded. Nothing in the eyes of the God of the Dead compared to his wife, you see,” You share a smile with your husband, a smile that makes your heart quicken its beat in your chest, and continue, “Still, the nymph boasted that the new Queen of the Underworld was no match to her beauty, to her wit. And so, it is said that in that field where Hades first saw his wife, Minthe would wait, trying to seduce the God back to her side.”_

_“Did she succeed?”_

_You shake your head with a slight chuckle, “Some say Hades was enraged at the mere thought of failing his promise to his wife, and witness to such poor mimicry of the Goddess he loved, he struck Minthe there, turned her into a pitiful plant,” Ivar discards the small leaf and bends down to reach for your legs, making you rest them across his lap. You settle better, grateful for the relief from the cold, and trying not to tremble like some foolish maiden at the rhythmic caress of rough hands up and down your calves, you continue, “Others say it was my Goddess, and not her husband, the one that answered the call, and that she punished Minthe for the offense of trying to take what is hers. And so mint is untoched by each passing spring not as a mercy, but as an act of cruelty by the Goddess that scorns her.”_

_“Maybe the nymph was after your Godess, though. Maybe it was Kore she wanted the love of, and she scorned Hades for taking her from her,” He offers, and you startle, leaning back. Still, you are unable to keep the smile that curves at your lips. Ivar shrugs, and his smile is a little darker when he continues, “Your Mistress turned a God into a thief, you think she couldn’t turn a nymph into something else too?”_

Your chest feels tight, because you do have a soft heart, and a part of you never stopped being the foolish girl that used to whisper to the plants she kept with her in the Silk Roads that if they fought and grew she would protect them and keep them alive.

Voice soft and low, you promise, “You won’t ever lose me because of Ivar,” But because you cannot help it, because a part of you never stopped being the woman that prided herself in killing and dying to protect those she loved, you add, “The same way Ivar won’t ever lose me because of _you_.”

Freydis focuses on her work, and for a while you remain in silence, for so long you start thinking she won’t speak again.

But she does, more than a bit of anger -though not at you- in her tone when she states,

“You don’t know what it is like, being alone. I have been at the hands of the worst of men, I have been beaten, starved, raped, humiliated,” And the woman that could be a nightmare to any man raises her chin, coldness in her eyes and strength in the straight line of her spine. You hide your pride and pain, both for her, and remain silent. Freydis smiles brokenly to herself, tears finally falling down her face, “I know fear, and I know pain, I have known them for a long time. And yet, the worst thing in this world is not being broken, defiled, or in chains,” A deep breath, some of the strength wavers, “The worst thing is, in such a wide world, being…alone.”

A small smile curves at your lips when you think that Freydis was the first person to treat you like…well, a person, aside from Ivar. She didn’t see a witch, a woman here to fool their King, a Saxon spy, a foreigner.

She saw you, more clearly than you would have thought then, you realize now; but she saw you, and she was friendly, and kind, and just honest enough.

_She stands before you in the dark, in the whirlwind of chaos that Ivar and Fate have brought to your life. She sees your tears, and there’s rage in her blue eyes._

_Still, she offers honesty, she offers relief, she offers a stretched hand, “You aren’t alone.”_

She never left you alone.

“I…guess I have been fortunate. I have always had people at my side.” You whisper quietly, but you don’t think she hears the silent gratitude in your voice.

“More fortunate than you know, witch,” She agrees, nodding to herself. She turns her body to you, facing you directly and fiercely, even if regret swims in those blue eyes, “I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t want you to be alone either. I am sorry, for what I did, for what I…do.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Freydis. It is done,” You interrupt, pressing your lips into a line and hoping this is not a mistake when you offer, “What matters is what you choose now.”

The blonde shrugs, a small, apologetic and broken smile on her lips, “I…love you. I want to be someone you can trust, I want…I want to deserve your trust.”

Stupidly, naively maybe, you believe her. So, you agree with a nod of your head, and return your gaze to the dried herbs you’re working on, “Alright, then it shall be so.”

“I…I, uh, I don’t-…”

“I love you, Freydis.” You whisper, stealing a glance to her wide eyes and when your gaze meets hers you hope she knows you are honest.

The girl’s lip trembles for a moment before she returns her gaze ahead, and she lifts her chin, proud and refusing to admit the weakness of emotion. You stifle a small pleased smile when you see her, and it is only the question that leaves her lips next that keeps you from embracing her.

“So, are you planning on staying?”

_If Stithulf were to die today…_

“That’s…not a question I want to answer.” You offer nervously, mouth suddenly dry and heart skipping a few beats.

“You feel you must return to Greece. Your home calls to you.”

Yoi shake your head, “I don’t know where my home is. But…I have a legacy to uphold. My mother and father died for my freedom, I cannot turn my back on their sacrifice for…”

“Love?” She supplies when you quieten, startling you both with her implication and her certainty when she continues, “You put your duty before love once, and you still shed tears for it. Do you want to do it again?”

_No._

You shake your head, ridding yourself of useless and jumbled thoughts, and close your eyes against the torrent of emotions and fears and hopes. You reach for a batch of dried Feverfew and Chamomile, and offer her half so she starts working.

“We must now just…hope the winter is kind to us. And when spring comes…we will see.”

If your voice is ragged, if your eyes shine, she does not mention it, instead taking the herbs and lowering her gaze.

After a while of comfortable silence, the blonde asks,

“What does spring mean to you?”

“Change,” You reply easily, although it never is. “Whether we want it or not.”

“To us it means war. They go raiding again, they go kill and die again, when spring comes.

The day goes by, and you two sit there, shoulder to shoulder, Varangian to Greek, woman to woman, surrounded by the one place where you can feel warm while Ivar is gone.

A call of your name interrupts the easy nothingness of your mind, and you turn your attention to Freydis as she offers you her hand, stretched between you like who seals a deal.

“Wherever your Gods or mine take you, I shall be at your side,” She promises, her smile a little hungry and a little happy. “I swear it.”

Your eyes go to her outstretched hand, and for some reason it reminds you of the fists over the hearts of thousands of Attics, vowing loyalty to an Anassa you don’t know if you can be.

“I don’t need a slave, Freydis,” You say cautiously, lifting your gaze to her certain and unwavering blue eyes. “I need a friend.”

“I’ll learn,” She promises, fierce, a small smile on her lips that speaks of a woman that wants to swallow the world. You return it, even if guardedly, and grab tightly at her forearm as she does the same. “You have my word.”

____

You don’t know how long it has been, where you’ve stood there like who has seen a ghost, watching the falcon circling the longhouse.

Zephyr.

It is close to dusk, too close for any wild animal to be hunting. You know it is him, you know it like you know winter approaches fast.

You step out from the longhouse, your feet trailing after nothing, your eyes on the horizon, on the trees beyond the walls, where you know a ghost awaits.

Zephyr, loyal beast that he always was, lands on a nearby roof with a screech, as if finally content that you’ve heard his call.

You watch him take off again, go far past the walls, and try to think of a way out of Kattegat.

____

There’s a prayer being whispered past your lips, where you plead this isn’t the choice that dooms you.

You loom over Freydis’ sleeping form and reach a quiet hand to press over her mouth. Her blue eyes open, startled, but you shush her with a gesture. She relaxes soon enough, and you cautiously remove your hand from her mouth. The blonde girl sits up, a thousand questions written in her eyes that you promise you’ll answer once she comes outside with you.

She does, and the darkness of the city feels suffocating when you turn to her.

“You once told me a slave, better than anyone, knows of the ways out of a kingdom.” You whisper.

A few moments of silence, of baited breath, where you almost consider she will scream for the guards, sell your secrets to whoever will listen for a pat in the back. But she finally presses her lips together, and gives you a firm nod.

She guides you in the comfort of darkness to a path you did not know of, and with expertise she predicts the marching feet of the guards, motioning for you to move.

“You don’t have much time. If you don’t return before the sun rises…”

“I will return.” You promise, eyes already set on the path she pointed to.

You follow the impatient cries of a falcon through misty woods, catching your stumbling steps by grabbing into the branches and the trunks of trees. Night usually feels suffocating, but the promise of reunion and the hope beating in your chest keep you from feeling anything but anticipation.

A whisper of your name, and your eyes, already used mildly to the complete darkness, catch the slim figure waiting by one of the trees.

“Galla!” You exclaim, thinking too late of keeping your voice low. In no time you are embracing her and she you, hushed relieved laughs escaping your lips.

She’s real, and solid, and warm under your hands. She’s _alive_.

“I’ve missed you. I thought the worse, when we lost sight of you in Dublin.”

You shake your head, a watery laugh making its way past your lips.

“I was told you were all dead,” You shut your eyes tight, angry at your own foolishness, “I should have known better than to trust that Christian’s word.”

“We lost about a third of our people, seven hundred or so, those too weak to run or fight. And less than a hundred are either with Stithulf or elsewhere,” She whispers grimly, “But we are faring well, we scavenged and stole what we needed. We will set up, but far from here, lest we are seen as a threat while Kattegat’s King is away.”

A part of you wants to find a way to let Kattegat give them the support they need, but…but if you were planning on letting Ivar know the Greeks live, you wouldn’t have snuck out in the middle of the night.

You swallow thickly, and ask,

“Have you heard from Sieghild? Have they…found Narses?”

She shakes her head sadly, “Nothing but rumors about your mother. And Narses…he is probably buried in a Christian grave.”

With your eyes on hers, with trembling hands, with a hope you haven’t dared voice making the words that come out of your lips hoarse, you whisper, “Maybe h-…”

Galla interrupts you with another shake of her head, “I saw how the Varangians took him down. That he reached you before collapsing was a last mercy from Ares.”

You told Narses on the eve of the last battle he fought that if he insisted on holding against the onslaught of Ivar the Boneless’ forces, that if he sacrificed your people for a Christian’s dream of revenge; and dared survive, you would kill him yourself. But nor the vitriol of your last encounter or the resentment that grew in your last months together can keep you from sobbing his name when the reality of him not existing anymore settles in your chest.

There’s a finality to having someone that knew him, that saw the warmth in his eyes and heard his voice and his laugh, tell you he is gone.

“That fool.” You croak out, furrowing your brow as useless tears fall down your face.

“I’m sorry.” Galla whispers, but you shake your head. The dead don’t need your tears, they are in a better place. Or so you were told.

“Let’s pray the Mistress is merciful when she greets him,” You offer in response after a few minutes of silence, before resting your shoulder against a tree and asking, “How did you know I was in Kattegat?”

“Word of a Greek witch becoming wife to a famous Viking runs fast,” She offers, the word that the Norsemen have for their people still strange in her tongue. With a smile, Galla continues, “Wife and Queen. Only you would be stupidly brave enough to survive Ivar the Boneless.”

“I’m going to ignore the ‘stupid’ part.” You tease softly, still smiling at a ghost.

She chuckles, and continues, “I have been getting closer and closer to this place for weeks now.”

Your brow furrows, and you cannot keep yourself from asking, “And you deemed it safe? You somehow knew I was going to be able to cross the walls.”

“You are free here, freer than…than you have been in a long time, I think. I don’t know the King, but I’ve heard how his wife seems sent by the Gods, both for his sake and his home’s. And I do know you, and I know you wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes you made with Narses.”

You swallow past a knot in your throat, “What are you saying?”

“There’s no man in this world that could force a ring on your hand,” She states dryly, not an edge of hesitation in her voice. “Was your mother right, after all?”

“My mother?”

“That it would take a Viking man to tame a daughter of hers.”

She betrays a smile, and you let go of a tension you didn’t know you were holding. With a lift of your eyebrow, you say,

“Do I look tamed, Galla?”

Her smile widens, gleeful and a little devious, like all her smiles always have been; and Galla shakes her head, reaching for your left hand and lowering her gaze to your ring.

“You’ve heard of Laconia, have you not?” She asks casually, rough finger tracing the flowers engraved in the band on your fourth finger.

“I have.”

Dark eyes meet yours, “We have a place to fall back to. A safe haven to regroup, to gather our strength again.”

“And retake Attica,” You finish for her, straightening your back. “We’d have Sparta’s army, and Lysander’s victory instills fear in the Christians.”

Galla only looks at you in silence, considering you with the probing gaze of someone so used to shadows you sometimes believe she doesn’t see people and instead sees secrets.

“As an Attic, by heart if not by blood, I ought to ask my Anassa to lead us,” She sentences, making your heart drop. After a moment, she adverts her eyes from yours, licks her lips and breathes for a moment before continuing, “But I have seen you die, too many times for me to rest easy at night.”

“Galla?”

She takes a deep breath.

“As myself, as the woman that loves you, I’m asking my oldest and dearest friend not to return to fight a war she lost already,” She finishes, at the way you frown and step back only pushing forward, “Narses is dead, there’s no chains binding you to us.”

“I am one of you!”

Galla shakes her head, unmovable, “Not fully. You’re not fully theirs either, but-…”

“No,” You sentence, meeting her eyes and stepping forward again. Though your voice is hushed, you try summoning all your strength to the words you speak, “Circumstance doesn’t change my nature. I am Greek, I am Hiereia, I _am_ your Anassa.”

It feels like heavy chains being put on your wrists, to admit that, to accept that. It feels like the same chains Stithulf had men put on your wrists, before he took you from everything you loved.

“And you are his wife, you are their Queen.”

You will not hear anymore of this. It is pointless, it is something you could argue on for hours on end and never reach a solution. It is something that pulls tight at your chest with every passing breath where you have to be aware of how much Fate truly manages to tear you in two.

“Find our people a safe place to spend winter at. More than one town will grant you shelter until spring in exchange for labor in the last harvest of the year,” You order, eyes looking at the nothingness ahead of you as you try finding a way. “Don’t let them know you’re Greeks.”

“And your husband? You think anyone can keep a man like him from knowing about us? We are a threat, Greek or not.”

“He doesn’t have to know I know,” You sentence, even though you know it is a foolish choice. If you can just keep these two worlds apart for a while longer… “Galla, I just…need more time. Allow me this winter.”

“And when spring comes?”

You offer a shrug, “Change will come with it.”

“I won’t force you t-…”

“You should know by now forcing me to do something doesn’t work out particularly well,” You interrupt, trying to find resolve in all this madness. Eyeing the forest around you, you find yourself needing to say goodbye again. “I hope the winter is kind. If…if something happens, if you need me…send Zephyr to the skies, and I’ll be here.”

You embrace her, tightly and with a hint of anger at Fate for making you mourn her for so long, and she does the same, for so long the cold seeps into you when you step away.

“Stay safe, may the Gods watch over you.”

Galla smiles, “Our Gods and theirs, may they be with you.”

____

You have wondered, in the days that pass since you have last seen her, if this is selfish of you. Wanting to remain in this world in between worlds. Wanting more time.

Maybe it _is_ selfish of you, maybe it _is_ cruel, maybe it _is_ hopeless. You still pray, as the nights grow longer and the days colder, that as Persephone returns to her husband, not only do they allow yours to return to you, but that they allow you more time.

Your life, your death, is in their hands; all you ask for is time.

This morning, when you walk out the door of the longhouse as the cold sun rises, you extend a hand, and feel the faintest of snowflakes falling on your skin, melting over the back of your hand like a kiss.

“My Queen!” Someone calls out, and you turn to the boy that comes running towards you, “The ships, we see them.”

Your heart leaps in your chest, restlessness taking a hold of you, impatient feet wishing to forget pretenses and run to those docks.

“T-Thank you.” You tell him, and he leaves with bow of his head back to where he came from. For a few moments too long, you linger in the idea of going to the docks to wait for them.

“It’s still a while for the ships to get _here_ , you mad woman.” Hvitserk calls out from behind you, and you turn to him with a smile.

“They told you.”

“Mhm. I told you they’d return in time,” Hvitserk quips, putting his arm around you and hugging you to his side for a moment. “Now you’re stuck with my bother for the winter.”

He accompanies you to the healers, and helps you work on getting everything ready for the injured or sick that may need assistance when the warriors finally land.

Before long, able to distract yourself with your work, you find yourself watching with baited breath as the ships dock.

You meet familiar eyes and kiss familiar lips, and the world ceases to exist.

The cold of winter is biting over your exposed skin, and you were taught, all your life, that the dawning of winter meant the grief of a mother losing her child, meant a maiden was taken from the place she belonged and the world withered in her absence.

It doesn’t feel like death, winter. It doesn’t feel like absence, like grief. Like a departure.

It feels like warmth, winter. It feels like home, like love. Like a return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obvious references to the God Ivar storyline are obvious. But, as much as I vehemently hate that plot, it gave us Freydis as we know her, and I love writing her, so I had to reference it.
> 
> Is it absolutely fucking stupid to trust Freydis again? Yes. Is she doing it anyways? Also yes. Soft heart, what can I tell ya.
> 
> Oh, and yeah, Minthe is also a deity I related to Freydis. Many times during the story, especially in ‘key’ moments where Freydis is witness to something between the Reader and Ivar, the Reader mentions smelling mint. Surprise lol. Just a little nod to a nymph that wanted to fuck Hades and to Persephone’s jealousy, that’s about it. But Ivar’s take on it is my favorite bit of that flashback, even if mythology-wise it doesn’t make a lick of sense lol.
> 
> Anyhow, hope you liked this! Would love to hear your thoughts on it, and thank you so so much for reading!! I love ya!


	36. Chapter 36

_Stithulf is alive. Stithulf is alive. Stithulf is alive._

And you can remain between dead and alive for a while longer.

Shame threatens to choke you, but the relief seeps into your very bones and you allow yourself to forget what you ought to feel and revel in the freedom the bindings of your promises give you.

You distractedly nod your greetings to the few warriors that call your name in passing, but your eyes remain on Ivar as he speaks a few words with Hvitserk and Ubbe.

Toying with your wedding ring, you thank the Gods, both theirs and yours, for granting you what you asked out of them.

His survival, his return. Their victory.

And time.

Before long Ivar walks back towards you, tired movements of his arm on the crutch, while the other extends to you, expecting the touch of your hand on his.

You do not hesitate, but you do linger on it.

On the way his hand feels rough and warm as it holds on to yours, on the softness in his expression as he kisses your fingers, on the smile he offers you, a secret and something else written in it.

____

When you get to your room, you allow yourself to be lost in the heady feeling of having him back with you, lingering close in his embrace and kissing him until you can’t remember the cold that embraced you in his absence.

But, eventually, you need to put your feet back on the ground.

At your back Ivar leans against a table, pouring a goblet of mead for himself and you. You take a deep breath, turning around with your hands folded over your stomach, and your back straight.

“You didn’t tell me about what Freydis did.”

Ivar doesn’t look at you as he offers gruffly, “Would you have believed me?”

Your response is instantaneous, unwavering, “Yes.”

He finally turns his gaze to you, considering you in silence. You know he accepts the truth behind your words, but won’t admit it aloud. Instead, he shrugs,

“I wanted her to be the one to tell you.”

“Wanted to keep that conversation between just the two of you for as long as you could?” You press before you can keep the words from leaving your lips.

Ivar’s smile earns an edge of cruelty as he taunts, “Jealous?”

Oh, but you refuse to let him have this victory. So, you return the same kind of smile.

“She is. Of _you_ ,” You confess, a tilt of your head when you continue, “But you know that, don’t you? Very alike, Freydis and you.”

“I am not jealous of a slave.”

You never said anything about _him_ being jealous of _her_.

“She isn’t a slave. And you are jealous.” You insist, unwavering. Ivar’s nose furrows in anger and something else, and with a small sound of exertion he stands up, walking towards you.

“What do I have to be jealous of, hm?” He asks, “I have you, and she doesn’t.”

But it doesn’t sound certain, it sounds accusing, and it irks you, that he may doubt it.

“Is that a question?”

Past the flare of rage in his pale eyes, you notice something else, something more fragile. And he presses, eyes wide, “Should it be?”

You search his gaze, almost offended that he dares question you, affronted at the idea that nothing you do is enough to prove to him that you are true.

But you don’t find cutting edges, or bitter accusations, or distrust, written in his expression, no. You find fear, you find the same lost look in his eyes as that night where he told you, _I can’t help but think it a vision, a mirage, that once I get close enough will just vanish_.

You drop your shoulders with a breath, and concede, “No, of course not.”

But when you turn around Ivar reaches for your arm, your wrist trapped in a rough hand as he makes you turn to face him once again. Dread grips at you, the possibility of going back to what it used to be.

Because the coldness in his expression is familiar, and so is the surge of anger in your chest.

“But she is still by your side, even now that you know she betrayed you,” His eyes search yours and his grip on your arm tightens momentarily. “Why?”

“Because I trust her, because…she regrets what she did.”

“And regret is enough for you?” His anger rises with his words, and his brow furrows as he says, “I don’t want her near you.”

You take your arm off his grasp with a forceful tug, and say, “It isn’t your choice to make, Ivar.”

Ivar’s lip curls into a snarl, a furrow of his nose, a glint in his eyes that speaks of wrath and the desire to control and command it all.

Voice low, almost a threat, he insists, “You are my wife, you’d do good to remember that.”

 _Narses’ words echoing in the empty room, “As the commander of your forces,_ as the man you’ll marry _, I’m telling y-…”_

_And your response that left your lips like poison, “If you try using that to silene me, I fear you will not live long as my husband.”_

And the same anger of centuries, the same pride of being told too many times you ought to do or be something other than what you are, make you meet Ivar’s eyes, not giving an inch, “And you’d do good to remember that if you wanted someone meek and obedient, you should have married someone else.

He doesn’t let you have a victory, but he doesn’t push for his own on this matter either, choosing instead to glare at you.

And turns out you are very alike, Freydis and you, Ivar and you. Because there is a part of you that since the night of your wedding has held on to this foolish, damning _jealousy_.

“Maybe you should have married Freydis,” You tell him, biting, “Have her do as you say, and tell you everything you want to hear. Since you were so quick to believe her words when she spoke against everything _your wife_ tells you, I gather-…”

“I didn’t believe her,” You open your mouth to argue, but Ivar is quicker, “Not over _you_.”

“But she lives.” You reply, with more words asking the same question he did you: _why_.

“She lives because of _you_ , because you love her. Because you wouldn’t forgive me if I killed her,” He offers, unwavering. Ivar tilts his head to the side, considers you before taunting, “Don’t assume anything other than you is what keeps Freydis safe from me.”

It is fear and anger what makes you look at him in a blend of disgust and something else, and you vow, “You won’t touch a hair on her head, Ivar. On your Gods and mine, if you hurt her-…”

He interrupts you with a mocking laugh. You hadn’t heard those in a while.

“You will kill me?”

“I will make you regret it,” You offer, not missing a beat. Your words to him as he asked whether you had forgiven him for killing those merchants come to your lips, this time not as anything else other than what you meant. “Don’t forget, you can hurt me, but-…”

“But you can hurt _me_ too, I remember,” He interrupts, but there’s less edge, even if his resolve doesn’t waver. Ivar offers a quiet scoff, and with a small smile that speaks of an attempt at a truce tells you, “I listen, you just insist on thinking I don’t.”

And the part of you that is too alike him recedes, gives in, at the way he lowers the shield, exchanges the fighting stance for something softer. You lift your free hand to the side of his face, trace the scar on his cheekbone with comfortable familiarity.

Your voice is quiet, a promise, “Then listen to me now, when I tell you she deserves my trust.”

A moment, a breath, where his eyes meet yours seemingly in search for the answer to the question he hasn’t yet asked, before he presses,

“More than I do?”

“Never.” You vow, a small smile on your lips that Ivar doesn’t hesitate to lean down and taste against his own.

“Good.” He promises before he moves away from you and towards the bed.

Ivar sits down on the edge of the bed, one hand lifting an iron-encased leg to move it to the side, leaving space between his legs. He motions you closer as if your proximity were another step of the process, and you lift your eyebrows in question.

“My damn legs hurt, but I want you close. Get over here.”

You move to stand between his legs, but it seems you take too long, for he puts his hands on your hips and brings you closer.

Ivar’s gaze lowers to his hands, and he traces with his eyes as well as his fingers the belt that hangs low on your hips, asking quietly, “How was it? Ruling Kattegat alone?”

The argument isn’t over, the Gods know Ivar won’t leave an argument unfinished; but he does seem willing -eager, even- to forget it for the time being. And, if you’re honest, so are you.

“Wondering if now that I tasted power I look to usurp you?” You tease, your arms over his shoulders, fingers playing at the back of his neck.

Ivar chuckles quietly, and it still fills you with warmth to be able to make him laugh. You don’t think that will ever change.

“You won’t go to war against me,” He tells you in jest. But, because he cannot help himself, he taunts, “You’d lose.”

“I’ve been learning a lot from you, love, I wouldn’t be so certain.”

He smiles up at you, but there’s an edge of softness in it that grips your heart tight.

His hand lifts to your face, and Ivar brings you down and kisses you.

While the way he kissed you on the docks was hungry and desperate, bringing you as close as possible with a demanding grip; now he takes his time exploring your mouth, softly, languidly, and his hands take their time roaming over your body.

Instead of pulling back, Ivar lingers in the breath you share, brows pressed together and eyes closed. And he leans and claims your lips again, softly, quickly pulling back. And again, and again.

You smile against his mouth, unable to keep yourself from breathing out his name.

“You missed me.” He tells you, a dare. But you hear the question behind it.

“I did,” You reassure quietly, your hand on the side of his face holding him still as you press the softest of kisses on the corner of his mouth. “I missed you, Ivar.”

He lets out a small hum, either at your touch or your words. And it is a familiar sound. It is the same that left his lips when you kissed him on the night of your wedding, the same that left his lips when you told him you wanted him on the night that everything changed.

Gods, you love him.

The daze of the moment dissipates, and Ivar leans a bit back, though he doesn’t relinquish his hold on you, arms still secure around your waist as he looks up at you.

“Freydis betrayed you, you know it isn’t smart to keep her near.”

You absently trace the chainmail over his shoulder, as you think of your answer.

“Everyone I have trusted has betrayed me, I think. Even you, you put-…”

“Put chains on you and dragged you all the way to Kattegat, _I know_ ,” Ivar interrupts, exasperated. You chuckle at his frustration, and he brings you closer, his face against your stomach and in the way he tilts his head a silent command that you undo his braids. You smile, and get to work. Ivar continues, voice muffled against your dress, “But I have made amends, I have paid for it.”

“Have you?” You tease, and Ivar turns his head to stare up at you, the beginning of a smirk on his lips. “Because if one thinks about it, you have gotten exactly what you wanted.”

“But I’ve fought for it, I’ve earned it.”

“Earned me?” You ask, a tilt of your eyebrow.

He shakes his head, “I’m not answering that.”

It draws a laugh out of you, and you settle in the quiet peace as you continue working on his hair, his arms secure around your waist, his head a comfortable weight against you.

“You earned my…trust,” You confess, hoping he doesn’t notice the waver in your voice. If he does, he does not let it show. “And so has Freydis. You must trust my judgement, Ivar.”

“I do. But I also know you have a good heart, and you’d let someone escape Hel if they spoke words of love.”

“I’m not that naïve.”

“But you _are_ soft.”

Your nails drag over the shaved side of his head, moving his hair back and also succeeding in making his eyes threaten to flutter shut.

“I know you don’t intend it to sound like one, but with each time you tell me that it sounds more and more like an insult.”

He shrugs, “Take it as an insult then. It is still true.”

The smile his words draw on your lips is exasperated and lovesick and so many things, but you still shake your head at him, disbelieving.

“Do you intend to insult your wife often?”

“My wife is…something else when she is angry, so I don’t see why not.”

The noticeable steps of a thrall somewhere behind you make you both come down from the moment of quiet, and Ivar stands up from the bed as you step away from him.

The thrall mutters the bath you requested be drawn is ready, and you turn to her with a smile.

“Thank you,” You tell her, before asking her, “Without lavender oil, right? It’s not for me.”

“Of course.” She promises, a bow of her head and she is gone.

“Lavender,” Is all Ivar says when you turn around, and you frown in confusion. He offers a thoughtful nod, as if he is just realizing something, “ _That’s_ what you smell like.”

Your heart does a strange thing in your chest, but you still smile up at him, even if it is crooked and foolish.

“Why am I not surprised you sniff me, Viking?”

He shrugs, unbothered, “You are the one that uses flowers to be perfumed for me.”

“I have used lavender oil since you brought me here.” You argue, the _it wasn’t for you_ implicit in your tone, but Ivar’s smile only widens.

He leans closer and you stay frozen in your spot, and he runs his cold nose up the column of your throat, before dropping a kiss under your ear.

“I know.”

His voice, accented and low and _his_ , right by your ear, makes your knees weak.

“J-Just go.” You tell him, stepping back again with a hand on his chest to keep him away.

____

Luckily not many were lost, and most of those who returned injured will be alright. You spend a while tending to the more urgent matters with the healers, but before long dusk threatens to settle upon you, and you return to your room.

Grateful for the warm water and cloth a thrall offers you, you shrug off the bloodied dress and clean the stain of blood and work from your skin.

The girl leaves you alone as you put on the clean dress, and as you work on the laces of it -as best as you can, having grown so unused to lacing your dress up yourself- you hear the door to your rooms open again.

“Love? Where are you?”

Hearing Ivar call you that never ceases to make warmth settle in your chest, a strange blend of joy and pride. It takes you a few moments to reply, too caught up lingering on the words you haven’t said yet.

“Back here,” You call out, hearing the characteristic shuffling of your husband crawling over the wooden floor. “My dress got blood on it, I needed to change.”

“You do know you don’t need to go back there, right?” He says, a blend of mocking and daring. “I _have_ seen you naked before.”

_The water of the bath growing cold around you, and alone in the room with Ivar you grit your teeth at how he offers you the linen to cover yourself, but stays more than a few feet away from you, arrogant and hungry._

“Yes, I remember.” You bite out.

Ivar chuckles, sending a shiver down your spine as if he were right behind you, even though he’s on the other side of the room.

“Oh, trust me, so do I.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” He calls out, a small grunt as he lifts himself onto the bed. “I’m sure you often wish you did, but you don’t.”

You walk from behind the wooden wall with a chuckle, but you stop short when you see Ivar on the bed, for the first time since you’ve known him with nothing but pants on.

Gods, imagining what he looked like was nothing compared to this, was it? Broad shoulders, strong arms, defined chest. Your eyes are greedily taking in the new sight, and your heart beats quicker in your chest. A rush of heat goes through you, because there’s a ring on your finger and it’s a reminder that he’s _yours_.

Your eyes linger on the ink traces on his skin, paths that curve sinuously over the arch of his strong shoulders, that travel down his arms and dare venture over his chest.

“What is it?”

Your throat is dry, and you have to force your eyes to meet his.

“I, um, I had never seen them before.”

“You’ve seen people with ink on them.”

You cannot help the nostalgic huff of laughter that leaves your lips, your lips curved into a side smile.

“When I was younger, I was _warned_ by Frankian travelers of those Norsemen and how they tempted women away from their God with their bodies, with the…traces of ink on their skin. A part of me…clung to those warnings,” Your voice lowers, and so do your eyes, returning to the ink traces on Ivar’s chest. “Surrounded by Christians and Arabs, I would…fantasize about Viking men.”

And looking at him, you understand why those Christian women forgot their vows and their God.

Ivar grunts, settling better in his place and not meeting your eyes, uncomfortable.

“And the Viking you married is a cripple, not even whole,” He spits out, and your stomach tightens with dread and cold. “I’d say ask the Gods why they curse you so, but they don’t answer.”

Frowning, you step closer.

“Don’t say those things,” You chastise softly, “You are whole, and…and I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

“I thought you didn’t lie to me, wife.” He snaps back, but it doesn’t have the usual biting cruelty, it is more…wavering.

“I don’t.”

“You’ll tell me you don’t wish I’d been born…normal?” There’s bitterness and something else in his voice when he confesses, “I do.”

“If you were any different you wouldn’t be you,” You remind him, standing by the edge of the bed, a question in your eyes. Ivar’s eyes fall from yours, but it is an answer, so you sit down, facing him. “You are who you are because of your legs, Ivar. If you were any different, you wouldn’t be you, and I wouldn’t want you the way I do.

The smile he offers is short-lived and insincere, and your chest pulls tight. You lean closer but he still refuses to meet your eyes.

Your voice is hushed, but you know he can hear you, when you say,

“If you were any different, I wouldn’t love you the way I do.”

_If you name things, you make them real. And real things are dangerous things._

But you don’t feel anything other than peace, at having finally said it. You’ve admitted it to others for so long, to yourself for even longer, it was time you admitted it to him too. Ivar deserved to know, maybe more than anyone.

He furrows his brow, questioning, hesitant. His expression trembles, but his eyes desperately search yours for the truth behind your words.

“Y-You…?” His words die, and there’s a fragility to him, a vulnerability that tells you of the hold you have on his heart, and it terrifies even you.

The hesitance to accept your words as true, the fear that somehow this isn’t real, the desperation for any reassurance that _you love him_ ; it makes tears sting at your eyes and your heart hurt deep in your chest.

Still, the words come easy, and they are a promise, a reassurance, a truth when you speak them.

“I love you, Ivar.”

He doesn’t give you time to dwell on the strange way his expression falls at your words, because he brings you closer and hungrily claims your mouth.

You cannot keep the soft sound of surprise and delight that leaves your lips, and you allow yourself to surrender to his kiss, to the heady feeling of him. Your hand falls on his shoulder to support your weight as he demands you move even closer with a hand on the back of your head.

Before long, you have to part for breath, but Ivar is insistent, claiming your lips again and again and again, each time with growing urgency, with a desperation that isn’t born out of lust but of… _fear_.

With your brow pressed against his and your hand on the side of his neck, you silently ask him to slow down.

You open your eyes, and take in the strangely pained expression on his face. Brows furrowed, jaw clenched tight, and hands that you both pretend don’t tremble as they cup your face.

“I love you,” You whisper, because you can, because you want to, because he needs you to. You cross the distance between you and kiss him softly, pouring all you feel for him in the gentle press of your lips on his. “I love you,” You tell him again, kissing him again, granting him in the soft and loving kisses what reassurance he was looking for in the desperate kisses he demanded before. “I love you,” His eyes refuse to open yet, and your hand lifts to the side of his face, fingers delicately tracing the scar on his cheekbone, hoping the by-now-familiar gesture can make him lose some of the tension that has taken a hold of him. His eyes finally open, and you smile. Voice quiet, you offer, “I love you, Ivar. More than anyone, more than anything, I love you.”

This time, when you lose yourself in him, there’s softness instead of desperation, even though the hunger and the want linger.

You meet his gaze when you pull back, hoping he finds whatever he is searching for in your eyes.

But before long your gaze returns to his bare chest, and the ink traces that roam over his skin. You lower your hand from where it rested on his neck to touch him, but stop yourself just a hair’s breadth away from his skin, your breath caught in your throat when you lift your eyes to his.

He grabs your hand, and moves you forward, pressing your palm against the skin over his heart.

And as if chains were broken, you now are free to trace with your fingers as well as your eyes the ink traces on Ivar’s chest.

You move closer, and drag the tips of your fingers over the figure of what looks to be a prow of a Viking ship, and follow the traces of the ink down the side of his chest, almost to his stomach.

His chest rises and falls quickly at your touch, and you when you lift your gaze back to his and find dark eyes looking intently into yours, you bite your lip to try to keep at bay a smile.

You were never one to hunger for power, but if power means _this_ , if power means Ivar’s parted lips and quickened breaths, if power means making him tremble at the faintest of your touches; you understand why so many kill and die in search for power.

There’s a thrill, in having such power. A thrill that makes your own heart quicken in your chest, that makes you want to lean down and trace the paths of the ink with your tongue and your lips.

And because you’re the one in power now, you do.

You start near his collarbone where one of the thick lines curves from his shoulder, letting your breaths trace the skin for a moment before you kiss it.

Ivar lets out a shaky breath when your lips touch his skin, and that only encourages you to keep going. You move further down, a trail of kisses down the center of his chest, while your hands leisurely explore the rest of him, his shoulders, his arms, his sides.

When you lift your eyes to his face, not content in soft little sounds and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, finding yourself wanting to see the evidence of your effect on him written in his expression, you find pale blue eyes dark and hungry, focused intently on you.

You offer a side smile against his skin, and the ink traces are long forgotten as one of your hands ventures down his chest, trailing down his stomach and…

He grips your hand before you can go any lower, and you make a sound of protest as you watch him trap your wrist in his hand. You are petulantly upset that he stopped you, because _he is yours_ , and you want to touch him, you want to show him that he most certainly can feel pleasure, and that you most certainly want to give it to him.

His hand at the back of your neck makes you look up at him, and he brings you to him with a certainty that borders on desperation.

His mouth claims yours urgently, and you answer the siren call, straddling him and surrendering to the taste of his kiss, to the feeling of his hands on you.

Ivar brings you closer and closer, sitting up so that as much of you is pressed against as much of him as possible, as if trying to make you one.

One of his hands lingers on your backside, grasping at you and bringing you closer, while the other roams over you. His free hand roughly cups your breast as he moves his lips down the column of your throat, and your back arches, his name a breath on your lips.

You feel dazed and yet you still feel the hunger, you still starve and want and ache. 

Hearing you call his name makes Ivar slow down, and he pulls back slightly to look at you. His hand falls back to your waist and you instantly miss the touch.

His gaze meets yours, his eyes dark and his lips parted and bearing the mark of your kiss.

“I want you,” He tells you, gaze falling back to your lips. He steals another kiss, and when he pulls back, he repeats the words you told him, “However I can have you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m almost sorry for ending it like that btw, but I have my reasons and I think you can guess what those reasons are lol
> 
> I hope you liked it, thank you so much for reading!


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the rating goes up. Don't worry about skipping this if you can't/don't want to read explicit stuff, you won't miss anything plot-wise. Thank you!

_“I want you,” He tells you, gaze falling back to your lips. He steals another kiss, and when he pulls back, he repeats the words you told him, “However I can have you.”_

You stay frozen at his words, slowly trailing your eyes from his lips to meet his eyes. Still, no words leave your lips, except a muted gasp that leaves you looking at Ivar with parted lips and wide eyes.

“Do you want me?” He presses, searching your gaze.

Your first instinct is to scoff, to accuse him of putting you on the spot when he knows the answer.

But you know better, and you understand it is hard for him to believe he is wanted, and you hear the request for reassurance.

“Of course I do,” You tell him, before offering a smile that may be a little hungry but no one can blame you. “Since Aneridge, Ivar. And since I’ve had…this, _you_ ,” You prove your own point by letting your hand freely explore the warm skin of his chest as you continue, “Just having you within reach, just _this,_ makes me want you so much I ache.”

His pale eyes search yours, you know a part of him still expecting the hint of a lie, but there’s a hungry edge to the darkness in Ivar’s eyes that makes a thrill run down your spine.

Eventually, the slightest curve of a smile on his lips. Daring, arrogant.

“Show me.”

You take a deep breath, and lean closer, but stop just shy of kissing him.

Your eyes open to meet his, and you know in your gaze shines a challenge. Much like the kiss you shared before he departed for Strepshire, you both remain tethered to one another, waiting for the other to cave.

When he refuses to be the one to do so, you still cross the remaining distance and kiss him.

You kiss him hungrily, chasing the arrogant smile of his lips and replacing it with the soft sound you draw out of him when you pull away.

Breaths heavy, you tangle your fingers in Ivar’s hair and guide his head back. He complies so easily you feel heat pooling low in your belly, especially when you catch the way his eyes flutter shut at the sting of your sharp pull on his hair.

“More than any other man in my life, I want you. You insufferable, stubborn man,” You tell him with a smile you seal in a kiss against the tantalizing skin of his neck. “So handsome, so strong, so-…Gods, Ivar, I love everything about you.

You silence whatever protest he was going to voice by doing what you’ve wanted to do since Aneridge. You bite down softly on the soft skin of his neck, making a choked little sound leave his lips, and making him crane his head further back as if to give you more of him.

“So of course I want you,” You sentence, continuing as if your voice doesn’t tremble with need and your thoughts aren’t clouded by him. You lean back just enough to be able to look at him, to take in the parted lips that bear in them the mark of your kiss, to delight yourself in the way his pale blue eyes threaten to flutter shut. You smile, and as a whisper, a confession, you finish, “I want you so much, just one kiss from you makes me so wet, so desperate for you.”

His eyes widen at your last words, and his lips part as he stares up at you. Without even touching him you cloud his gaze with desire and hunger, without anything other than your words you put him under a spell; and you can’t help thinking that the Gods really shouldn’t have let you taste power like this.

“S-Show me.” He asks, sharp breaths leaving his lips. Ah, and so different from how he asked you to show you last, isn’t he?

If in the sigh you let out is masked a choked moan, no one can blame you.

Lifting yourself off his lap on your knees, you take Ivar’s hand and guide it between your legs, biting your lip when you feel the faintest touch of him against you.

His fingers are cold, and even in the hesitant trace they draw on you they manage to make electricity run through your veins. You shudder slightly, and Ivar lifts his eyes to look at you.

“I want to…I want to pleasure you,” He tells you, certain and yet dazed as his eyes roam over your expression, “Show me how.”

_Gods._

Hushed words and gentle movements of your hips guide his fingers into the way to touch you, and with your hands on his shoulders, you tilt your head back and surrender tohis touch, unable to keep the soft sounds of pleasure from leaving your lips.

As you climb higher and higher, your control dissipates, your legs tremble, your breath shakes each time it leaves your lips, hurried and desperate.

And before you think twice about it your hand reaches for Ivar’s wrist, demanding control of the way he moves his fingers against you, and you move above him, unable to stop the faint thrusts of your hips as you bring yourself closer and closer.

You call out his name as you come undone, and it is the only sound you hear past the beating of your own heart in your ears.

You open your eyes slowly, as if awakening from a dream, pliant and dazed and still lost in him. And you find Ivar looking at you with wide eyes, his breaths quickened, a blend of fascination and desire written in his expression.

It robs you of breath and thought yet again, the way he looks at you. Hungry, awed, reverent, _wanting_.

Caught in the spell of his gaze, you dazedly watch as Ivar moves his hand from under your skirt.

He brings his fingers to his lips without any hesitation.

The sight of Ivar tasting you on his own fingers makes your breath get stuck in your throat, and you watch him with wide eyes and quickened breaths.

You have no idea what you look like now, but you have a feeling you look ravenous and wrecked. You feel that way.

He kisses you passionately, hungrily, yet slowly, as if to savor the moment even as fire runs in both your veins. You for once surrender, letting him angle your head to meet his kiss, letting his tongue invade your mouth and dance with yours. Letting him take your breath and everything you are in this kiss.

When he pulls back you smile, and a bit of your certainty returns to you. The Gods really shouldn’t let mortals taste this kind of power.

“Undo my dress.” You tell him before stealing another kiss and leaning back. The trace of his fingers down your back as he undoes the laces of your dress is a familiar one, but what isn’t familiar is the way his fingers shake just a bit, or the way he leaves trails of lightning running through your skin at the faintest of his touches.

Moving off the bed to stand at its side, you let the dress fall down to the floor, you let yourself be exposed to the same hungry blue eyes of that first time so many months ago when you did just this.

Only this time you don’t feel the need to hide, only this time there’s reverence past the hunger, and there’s something softer past the desire.

Ivar stares up at you in silence for a few breaths, before his eyes roam over all of you, naked want written in his gaze, and when his eyes return to meet your own, you notice something like awe and need in the way he looks at you.

You feel like a Goddess in human form, you feel as divine as the maiden that made of a God nothing but a man, you feel powerful and wanted and _his_.

When you get back on the bed Ivar doesn’t leave you much time to adjust, his hands settling comfortably at your waist and with the same ease as that first time lifts you and puts you on your back on your side of the bed.

He crawls over you, and you don’t hesitate to part your legs and use one of your own to help him settle in the cradle of your hips.

But the hand not holding him up doesn’t venture between your legs just yet, and instead cups your breast, sending a pang of heat through you.

You gasp against his lips, and you could swear Ivar smiles proudly.

Before long he starts moving down, exploring -much in the way you did, before he stopped you- all of you with lips and tongue. Your breaths are sharp and a little shaky, and your hand tangles in his loose hair.

One last kiss under your bellybutton, and he looks up at you again. The sight of him, lips bitten and cheeks tinted red, with his eyes dark as he looks up at you from so close between your legs; it won’t ever leave you.

You don’t want that sight to leave you, if you are honest.

“I want to taste you.”

He starts repeating the touches you guided his fingers into with his tongue and lips against you, and you can’t help but cry out as pleasure builds up inside you again, making you feel exposed and raw and desperate.

You have scarcely felt so tethered and yet so close to dissolving as you do now.

Before long the knot in your core tightens, and you are dangling over a precipice. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and the sting of pain makes var let out a soft little sound against you, a little hum that reverberates through you.

You feel like you’re falling over that precipice, and your back arches off the bed as you are lost in the pleasure he gives you.

Breaths heavy, you come down from your high, tugging on Ivar’s hair with a noise of complaint when he licks a trace up your sensitive skin.

He breathes a chuckle against the inside of your thigh, before crawling back up over you.

You will never cease to lose your breath at the way Ivar looks at you, dazed and enthralled and starving and _yours_.

This time it is you who kisses him, who demands with teeth and tongue what he freely gives. This time it is you who claims his mouth over and over, drawing the softest of sounds and stealing his breath and his every thought. This time it is you who puts your hands certain and unwavering on him and makes him fall on his back.

You straddle him, and your hands are desperate and greedy as they trace over the exposed skin of his chest, your lips are demanding and hungry as they demand the feel of his kiss.

You lose track of time in kissing him, making him surrender to the press of your lips on his. And though you are sated and your body plaint and still tingling with the aftermath of the pleasure he brought you, you want him to feel it too.

This time your hands are rougher as they reach down for him, and this time he doesn’t stop you before you can reach him.

Over the linen of his pants, you touch him, your hand putting just enough pleasure for him to feel you, and for you to feel the outline of his cock, that you could swear starts to harden further under your touch.

Ivar parts from your lips, but it isn’t to tell you to stop, and instead he moans your name. A name you kept secret from him for so long, but now you hear reverberating from his chest like a prayer.

His head lolls to the side and you take advantage of it, kissing right on the edge of his jaw, intending to move downwards as your hands moves over him again, making his hold on you tighten.

This time it is no illusion, no mistake. His cock starts to harden under your touch, and you press a little harder, delighted in the way you make him gasp.

“S-Stop.” He tells you, and his voice is no longer hoarse because of desire, he no longer sounds dazed and instead sounds wretched.

You immediately stop, leaning back, and Ivar grabs your wrist again, moving you away from his cock. And though his eyes meet yours for a moment, they fall to somewhere above you before long, and he swallows thickly.

You say his name softly, quietly, trying to beckon him back to the safety you were able to lull him into just now, trying to make him forget with your voice alone any other moment that wasn’t one he shared with you.

But the roots of the pain that night caused him run deeper than you could ever begin to understand, and he shakes his head, teeth gritted and resolute.

“You know I can’t.”

“Ivar, there’s no reason to believe you can’t,” You insist, even though your voice is softer, and your touches are soothing. “If you’d just trust me-…”

“I do trust you. I trust you more than anyone,” He interrupts, meeting your eyes again. Something shaky and afraid shines in his pale blue eyes, and his brow trembles as he insists, “But I _can’t_ , love. I-I can’t, it will fail, I will f-fail, and I-…”

You silence the words that start to become jumbled and panicked with a soft press of your lips on his. Leaning your brow against his, your hands cupping the sides of his face, you meet his eyes.

A part of you wants to push, wants to make him see there is no reason to believe he is unable to do it, wants to have him understand there is nothing to lose and no shame in trying, wants to prove to him that even if you try and fail nothing changes.

But you feel like you did that day you saw him break a bone, where if you are as the years have made you -insistent, relentless, stubborn- you may hurt him or become yet another memory that haunts him even today, and if you are as nature made you -soft, gentle, loving- you may just be letting him fall deeper into a certainty that haunts him as much as the memory that gave him it.

You may find a place to stand between those two parts of you, a way to prove to him he can give in and trust you to keep him safe no matter the outcome; but this is all so new, and you’re both still stumbling in the dark, and you don’t think today is the day.

So with a caress of your fingers over the scar on his cheekbone, you whisper,

“You could never fail me, Ivar, no matter what. But we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” He searches your gaze, but after a moment nods his head once, as if accepting your words. You offer a smile, “And I…I told you the night of our wedding: you don’t need a cock to sleep with a woman, and you…Gods, love, you more than proved that.”

The reassurance of how he satisfied you, the gentle praise, makes him lose some of the tension in his frame. With your heart beating a little slower and your breathing a little easier, you kiss him softly again, promising your love against his lips with hushed words that Ivar doesn’t hesitate to seal against his own lips when he kisses you again.

____

Later in the night, still intertwined and almost unwilling to part or to move, you relax against the bed with Ivar’s head resting against your stomach, his arms around your middle.

Your hands run rhythmically through his hair, and -almost as a proof he isn’t asleep yet- Ivar turns his face and kisses your skin with a soft hum.

After a few breaths, he takes a deep breath, and confesses in the low light of your room,

“I won’t be able to have children.”

And it is the pain in his voice, the grief for what he believes he can’t have, the hoarse whisper that speaks of anger and sorrow; that makes you speak without even thinking about it.

“Sieghild is my mother. She didn’t birth me, but she raised me, and made me who I am. I am not of her blood, but I am her daughter,” He rests his chin on your stomach to look up at you, and you pretend not to notice the glimmer in his eyes as he searches yours, hanging on to your every word. Without doubt, you promise, “A seed doesn’t make a father, Ivar. We can have children, and they may not have your eyes or your hair, but they will have your drive and your strength and your intelligence. And you will be their father, and they will carry your legacy.

The smile your words draw on his lips is a little wobbly and a little frail, but it still makes your heart flutter. He rests his head on your stomach again, you think in no small measure to hide his face from you, but you don’t mind.

Your fingers run through his loose hair soothingly, and you vow,

“A hundred years from now, their children and their children’s children will still speak your name, tell your story.”

He remains silent, and deadly still, for a long while after that. But, eventually, Ivar moves in his place to settle better against you, and his hands travel over your sides as his arms wrap around you again.

“These look painful.” He mumbles, fingers skimming over the burn marks on the side of your back. Granted, you can’t feel much of his touch, but you can see him.

“I was lucky. They got me out on time. Well, on time would have been before they burned half of me, right?” You offer a chuckle that feels hollow, but Ivar doesn’t smile. Wasn’t very funny, anyways. You shrug, “But it was in time, Narses got me out in time. He burned his hands.

You don’t know why you’re after almost to years still so focused on how he injured his hands getting you down form that pyre.

You also don’t know why you are suddenly so unable to stop talking.

“They did a lot for me, during those first weeks. I couldn’t talk, could barely move. They…they did a lot of work to leave the scars as faint as they could.”

Ivar doesn’t say anything, remains silent with his eyes still tracing over the burn marks on your side.

You almost start talking again when he mentions, “You never talk about these.”

“What is there to tell?”

“How you survived, for one.”

“I…don’t know. Maybe I didn’t,” You confess, voice low. He raises his eyes to meet yours, a question written in the furrow between his brows, and you smile slightly, fingers reaching up and tracing his frown. “You told me once that I had died the moment you brought me to Kattegat, that I was no longer in a place my past could reach me. That the Priestess was dead.

And you cannot help but think of the woman you once were, ambition and ruthlessness barely held in place by soft skin and warm eyes. The woman that fooled the most powerful man in Attica into loving her, the woman that achieved all she wanted with but a promise of love. The woman that, if she were alive today, would have Ivar’s army doing her bidding just as she had had Narses’.

The woman that you see shining in deep blue eyes when you look at Freydis.

Returning to Greece from the Silk Roads made you cold, made you something other, something that you still are. But it is not all you are anymore, because the flames remade you too.

Maybe you did die in that pyre in Eleusis. Maybe all that has happened in between then and now has been but your descent.

Maybe there can be a life to be lived amongst the dead, at least as long as winter lasts and the Goddess of Spring makes life blossom in the realm of the dead.

And so, you tell Ivar, “I died then, or…who I was did.”

“Hmm. And what happens when a Hiereia dies?”

“We go to the Underworld. Each winter and each spring are spent in Lord Hades’ kingdom.” You tell him, feeling a pang of something in your chest, something bittersweet that reminds you of finding Persephone’s statue in the woods of Eleusis and realizing that in the years you had been gone nature had overtaken it, the realm to which they said she belonged had twisted and torn at what made her shape and her throne.

Your fingers run over Ivar’s hair as he lays his head back on your stomach, closing his eyes; and you sigh, relaxing against the bed.

It feels like cleansing the old stone of the vines and the invasive nature, the breath you let out. It feels like shaking fingers furiously reclaiming the statue for what it was, not what the years and the earth under its feet tried making out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you liked it!
> 
> I’m sorry if you’re dissapointed they stopped, but it didn’t fit them to go the full way rn because yeah, I don’t think Ivar is ready for that yet. I do think it would still be important for Ivar to know he can satisfy a woman, y’know?
> 
> And yeah, she said ‘we can have children’ not ‘you can have children’. Ivar certainly didn’t miss that choice of words, though she did.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, alongside this chapter there’s Vár, Ivar’s PoV of this. I wasn’t very happy with what this chapter revealed or showed on its own, and I wanted you to have a broader perception of what happened and why. I 100% recommend you read it.

If you are honest, you don’t know how you ended up spending your morning sitting between Ivar’s legs on the floor of the main hall, his chest at your back, his arm secure around your waist and his throwing knives on your hands.

But here you are.

Eyes narrowed, you focus on the wooden pillar in front of you. Lifting your arm, you throw the knife.

It hits the pillar, it just…doesn’t hit it with the blade.

You look down at the knife in your hand. For such a small thing that is mostly blade, it is surprisingly difficult to have it pierce something.

Behind you, Ivar chuckles, and nuzzles at your neck, pressing a kiss over your bare skin.

“There isn’t a fault with the knife, my love.”

He has taken a liking for calling you that, even more so than before. A part of you wonders if it is his way of returning the three-word promise you haven’t tired of sharing with him since you told him for the first time but he hasn’t yet said back out loud; but you never linger too much on it, lost in the utter surprise and bafflement at finding out Ivar the Boneless likes using terms of endearment.

He’s called you _my love_ more times than you can count, and you will admit it is your favorite. But he’s also called you _my sweet_ , _my heart_ , and even the way he calls you _wife_ nowadays has a different tone to it.

In turn, you’ve taken for using terms in your own tongue, never failing to have warmth grow in your chest as you remember first hearing them as your mother said goodbye to your father, or as he greeted her at the temple. You wonder if they would be proud of you, of the man you love. You wonder if they would forgive you for imagining a world where you can choose love instead of the legacy they have inherited you.

You’ve been thinking a lot about them, these last few days. Maybe it is the fact that you now know you have no choice but to spend the winter in Kattegat, and the threat of the choice you will have to one day make seems lessened, allowing you to think of them without guilt. Maybe it is the conversation Ivar and you had about his ability to be a father, and all the others that followed in the dead of night, where he asked you if you think his children would love him, if you think they’d admire him, and clung to your words in a way he has never before, at least not that you have taken note of.

But you’ve been thinking about them, and about Sieghild. Thinking what it would be like to have their counsel, thinking they have been pulling you in two different directions long before Ivar made the promise to let you choose between Kattegat and Attica when the time comes.

As if to prove his previous point, Ivar takes one of the five knives from you and throws it towards the same pillar, leaving it deeply embedded in the wood.

“That was just to show off.” You grumble, and he breathes a laugh against your skin.

“You can do it, try again,” He tells you, his arm secure around your waist. You lean a bit more of your back against him, and lift your arm. Ivar makes a sound to interrupt you, and his hand grabs a hold of your wrist, “Why are you moving your arm like that? It’s a knife, not a sword.”

You sigh deeply, and try to keep the irritation off your expression as you let him guide you into a correct position.

You throw it, and though this time it does hit the pillar with the tip of the blade, it doesn’t have enough strength to stay stuck to the pillar. You grit your teeth, and you _feel_ Ivar’s smug gaze on you, and that only makes you angrier.

Instead of letting him infuriate you further, you turn in his arms, mindful of his legs -his eyes have been earning a blue hue to them, a bit more each day, but each time you mention it he rubs his eyes and tells you not to worry- so you can face him.

The edge of the blade teases at his skin, tracing over his cheek and making him turn his face towards you.

When he does, you tilt your head and kiss him, slowly, making sure he still feels the knife against his skin as you move your lips against his.

When you pull back there’s a deliberate flick of your tongue over his bottom lip, making Ivar lean forward, as if tethered to you by the spell of one kiss alone.

You smile, and his eyes, dark and hungry, focus on the curve of your mouth, a low hum reverberating through his chest as he breathes out.

You may not know yet how to throw these damn knives, but you certainly can distract him from his gloating.

____

“You’ve brought a few new ones.” Ivar comments, poorly-masked annoyance in his tone when he nudges yet another planter you’ve put on a nearby table.

“Marsh violet,” You tell him, pointedly snatching the vase when Ivar reaches for the plant’s fragile leaves. “It needs care.”

“It’s winter,” He reminds you, “It will probably die anyways.”

“Not if I can help it.”

You went out past the walls to fetch this one, and you were unearthing it when you first heard Galla’s voice behind you. It holds a stupidly special place in your heart, this simple plant of big and roundish leaves and nothing else.

Your hands shake a bit as you trace the edges of one of its leaves, reminded with blinding clarity of the one secret you’ve kept since Ivar has returned.

The day goes on, and then a few days go by, and while you can forget about the discovery of the Greeks’ survival during most of the time, too lost on what your life has turned into; each time you have to look or care for the frail plant you brought from Kattegat’s outskirts you are reminded of your secret.

This night, when you take Ivar’s hand and follow him to the bedroom you share, and return the miraculously free and almost happy smile he offers, and taste the mead in his tongue and feel his hands on you; you consider closing your eyes and pretending the world doesn’t exist, your secret doesn’t exist. You consider _lying_.

_“Will you tell me? Of what made you go past the walls?” Freydis asks, and you consider her for a few moments._

_You know trusting her even now is foolish, and naïve, and a mistake. But you also know that if you are the only one to know of the ghosts that still walk this earth you will lose your mind. So, you decide that between the pain of a possible betrayal and the suffocating feeling of a secret, you’d rather risk it._

_“My people, they…they are alive. I…I needed to talk with an old friend, she…she is leading the Greeks, while I am gone.” You notice the words that should have left your lips, that would have left the lips of a braver woman, would have been ‘_ now that I am gone’ _. But it is with a heavy heart you remain in this world between worlds, burdened by choice and freedom in a way you never imagined you would be._

_“Why not invite her to Kattegat? You are Queen, after all.”_

_You offer her a stern look, “You know why.”_

_She sighs, conceding. Freydis presses her shoulder to your own, and takes a deep breath._

_“I told you, witch, wherever the Gods take you I am with you, and I stand by that. But…it isn’t smart to keep things from Ivar.”_

_“I know.”_

_She still insists, “If he finds out, he will kill you, or kill them, or both.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Whatever deals you have made, whatever promises he has made; none of it will matter if he believes you’ve betrayed him.”_

_“I know, Freydis.” You tell her, turning to her with annoyance clearly written in your gaze. The blonde only smiles, and shrugs._

_“I’m just trying to understand.”_

_You offer the only truth you can, “I can’t choose. For a long time, I’ve resented the idea that your Gods took my choice from me with the Fate they weaved. For an even longer time, I’ve fought against anyone that tries taking my choice from me. But…”_

_“There’s freedom in being chained, isn’t there?” She finishes for you, and when you drop your head to her shoulder, tired and worn, she leans her own head against your own. “I don’t know much, but I know that.”_

_“What should I do?”_

_“You shouldn’t ask_ me _for advice, that’s for one,” She tells you, and you chuckle. After a breath, Freydis offers, “There will come a day when you can’t remain in between the two choices anymore. I say you wait for that day, and in the meantime, you make what you can of the time you have.”_

_“So, I lie.”_

_“You live.”_

You linger on the small dresser where you place the snake bracelet he gifted you, tracing the shape of the metal. There’s a part of you that makes your heart quicken and your hands tremble and whispers _lie, lie, lie_.

But there’s another part of you, a part of you that has been allowed to _be_ only in the time you’ve been away from Greece and her people; that wants to be something else, something more than a lie.

For all you did to Narses and to yourself with your games, for all the parts of you that suffered and died to bring you here; you cannot lie now. You cannot turn your back on the promises you made, to yourself and to others.

For what Ivar needs out of you, for the way he desperately wants to believe there is someone he can blindly trust and believe in and his hope that that someone is you; you cannot lie now. You cannot return to being someone you don’t want to be, someone that wouldn’t love him the way you do.

“Ivar,” He lifts his head from his work on the braces of his legs, but his expression shifts towards something more guarded at whatever he sees in yours. You take a breath, and whisper, “The Greeks, they…they are alive. And in Scandinavia.”

There are countless questions he wants to ask, you see it written in his stunned and confused expression. But, blinking as if to rid himself of a daze, he returns his attention to his legs.

You watch with baited breath as he finishes taking the heavier brace off his left leg. There’s always a methodical care with which he makes sure each night that they are safely stored away.

Tonight, as the heavy iron contraption falls to the ground unceremoniously, the sound it makes echoes in your head.

Ivar doesn’t look at you, for a long time, and you can do nothing except stay silent and _wait._

“How did you find out?”

“They found me, Galla, she…she was near Kattegat. We met one night, she…explained everything.”

“You went past the walls,” He says, not waiting for confirmation. He grits his teeth, considers his words before he says, “And no one told me.”

“No one that would tell you knows about it.”

It isn’t a smart thing, to remind Ivar of the things he can’t control, to make him see there are situations where he is powerless. Even if it is already past, you know it weighs on him to now know you could have left and there was nothing he could have done, and, maybe, to imagine you could do it at any moment now and he wouldn’t be able to stop you even if he is here.

Instead of continuing down that path, he turns piercing eyes to you and questions, “Where are they now?”

You shrug, “Far away.”

Ivar’s rage flares, “Are you trying to hide where they went, hm? Shield them from me?”

“No, I-…”

“I don’t need your permission or your help to find them,” He reminds you coldly, cruelly. And in the dangerous rage that overtakes him, in the hardened malice in pale blue eyes, you find Ivar the Boneless looking back. You find the man that took you from your people with iron encasing your wrists, you find the man you would have waged war against until the end of both of you. He presses, “I could have them all killed. Tie each of them to a pyre and burn them alive.”

Your chest tightens with something, something like pain, something like betrayal, something like wrath.

He knows better than to expect you to be intimidated, he knows better than to believe himself capable of making you cave.

But he also knows you well enough to know what to say, what to promise, to hurt you.

And a part of you that is too alike him wants to do the same, wants to lash out with cruelty against his own. A part of you that you have to grit your teeth through a deep breath to keep at bay.

Instead of biting words, you offer a simple answer,

“You could.”

It is not subtle the way you’re almost daring him to promise to do it, wanting to hear him say what monstrous things he is willing to do, wanting to make him admit giving you a choice was an illusion, a trick.

Ivar lift his eyebrows, head tilted to the side, and insists, “Is that why you’re hiding them from me?”

“I am not hiding them! I don’t know where they went.”

His voice lowers, and he warns, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I am not,” You promise with the same fervor, “Stop attempting to threaten me, or my people, Ivar.”

“Your people!?” He repeats, accusing, “The people of Kattegat are your people! Or have you forgotten that already, hm?”

“I am still a Daughter of Greece!”

You see it clearly written in his gaze, the same madness that made him bring you to Kattegat and tell you, _“You were sent by the Gods to me, and you will me by my side, I am not letting you go.”_

Ivar furrows his nose in a snarl, and he takes a sharp breath before he speaks, gesturing broadly with his arm,

“And yo-…”

With his gesture he unintentionally hits a vase of marsh violets, and as the ceramic planter falls to the ground with one of your latest additions to the growing collection of plants you keep in your room, his words stop.

Ivar stares at the fallen plant for a few breaths, and you listen to the part of you that tells you not to push and for once to remain quiet.

When he lifts his gaze back to yours, there’s something more human behind the pale blue of his eyes, there’s something softer, something more _him_.

He swallows thickly before whispering, almost hoarsely, “They want you with them, you know that.”

“They don’t…” Your words die and there’s a small, disbelieving smile on your lips when you finish, “They don’t need me, not even to survive these lands.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

You let out a breath, “You didn’t ask a question.”

He considers you in silence, but he doesn’t ask the question you know is at the tip of his tongue. Stubbornness and gritted teeth keep the _why aren’t you with them_ at bay, and Ivar’s head turns to the side, forcing his eyes away from yours.

A deep breath, and you accept his silence, walking away and changing out of your dress, unaccustomed fingers working out the laces of it.

When you step back out from behind the half wall, you find him sitting on his side of the bed, careful control keeping his body still as he still avoids your gaze.

“You aren’t with them.” He tells you when you get close enough, blinking slowly and looking up at you.

You take a deep breath, and Freydis’ words echo in your head, _you know the man you married; he needs certainty._

“No, I am not.” You sentence, and this time it is your stubbornness what keeps the next words from leaving your lips, _I don’t want to._

Ivar nods, as if accepting your words, and sucks in a sharp breath before he states the next certainty he’ll hold on to.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

His shoulders drop slightly at your simple words, and after a moment where the hesitance laced with anger that is so characteristic of the man you married is clearly written in his expression, Ivar extends a hand towards you.

“Come to bed,” He tells you, a request behind the words that sound like an order. You hesitate only for a moment, but it is enough to make him grit his teeth and bite out, “Please.”

Your chest pulls tight, and you take his hand and sink into bed at his side, your head against his chest, your hand over his heart.

Your eyes remain open, and the reflection of the light on your wedding ring seems mocking for a moment, but you focus on Ivar’s warmth and dispel such thoughts, and try quelling the anger, and try banishing the part of you that wants to keep fighting and hurting.

His arm drapes over your back, bringing you closer to him, and, with uncharacteristic softness, Ivar presses a kiss against your hair.

“Them being alive doesn’t change anything, Ivar.” You tell him quietly, but judging by the hollow and mocking chuckle he offers he doesn’t believe you.

Instead, he tells you to sleep, that you can talk about this tomorrow. You have to bite down words of protest, and an uneasy feeling in your stomach, but surprising yourself -and, you dare think, Ivar too- you agree.

His arm tightens around you, and he brings you closer, even if it is impossible

His voice is so quiet you barely make out the words, but you still hear him,

“I love you.”

You close your eyes and swallow thickly. For even if your heart skips a beat and your chest feels with warmth, it quickly gives way to the cold to take a hold of you. Because his promise of love sounds laced with pain, with regret for something not yet done, with grief for something not yet lost.

Instead of saying anything, you turn your head to press a kiss on his chest, before settling back in your place and willing yourself to give in to sleep.

That night, you wake up a few times, half dazed and sometimes chasing a dream of features veiled in red. And each time you wake up, while you drift back off to sleep, you feel the rhythmic trace of Ivar’s fingers going up and down your back, his free hand still holding onto yours where it rests on his chest.

When you wake in the morning, he is still tracing the methodic pattern up and down your spine, and pale blue eyes are focused above him, as if searching for an answer to be written up there.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the nothingness ahead, not even when you shuffle in your place and lean up in one elbow to greet him.

Your hand on his cheek makes Ivar finally turn to meet your eyes, and your stomach tightens with worry both at the blue hue of the whites of his eyes and at the unreadable expression on his face.

“Your eyes are very blue,” You mumble, thumb tracing the darkness under his eye before you ask, “Did you sleep?”

“Stithulf isn’t what’s keeping you here,” He tells you without prompting, ignoring your previous words. You sigh, but remain quiet, and Ivar continues, “And when you leave me-…”

“ _If_.”

He ignores that too.

“It won’t be because of him.”

There’s nothing to say to it, really. It is not a question, he knows the answer to it. The deal you made on your first morning as husband and wife was always meant to be a way to surrender without admitting to it, to live in borrowed time, to last for the winter.

“I don’t want you to leave me.” He confesses, voice low and hand momentarily tightening on yours.

It isn’t the harsh promises of _you won’t leave me_ , or the resigned bitterness of _you’ll choose to leave me_. It is an admission, a plea, a truth.

And legacy binds you, the blood in your veins entraps you; they keep you from an admission of your own. _I don’t want to._

Instead, you try to keep your voice low, as soothing as you can, as you promise, “Them being alive changes nothing, Ivar, I-…”

“It changes everything,” He interrupts, stubborn, resolute, “You would have done things very differently if you had known they were alive. Will you tell me that’s not true, hm?”

“If I had known they were alive I wouldn’t be here now,” You state, maybe a little harshly. Ivar grits his teeth, but doesn’t deny that was what he meant. “That is true, but it doesn’t matter. I am here, I love you and I…I don’t regret not knowing, I don’t wish for anything to have been different.”

_I don’t wish for anything to ever be different from this._

You see it in his expression, you feel it in the body pressed against yours, that he believes you, that he finds a semblance of comfort in your words. Still, he presses, “Why?”

You smile slightly, “My Fate…my Fate is intertwined with yours.”

Ivar is a man of certainties, and he will hold on to them with strong and trembling hands even if they tear at the skin and make him bleed; and all you can hope to do is give him certainties that don’t mean pain, even if the one certainty he needs from you is one you cannot yet give.

“I haven’t chosen them, I haven’t chosen yet. And I don’t have to,” You promise him with a low voice, pressing your brow against his before continuing, “For as long as winter lasts, I am with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	39. Chapter 39

You never really considered, when you decided to tell Ivar about the Greeks, that maybe your lies were never for the sake of others.

That maybe pretending to love Narses was not for him to be safe and comfortable enough to lay all he had at your feet, but for you to be able to pretend it was something purer, softer, _gentler_ than revenge what drove you to start that hopeless war against the Christians and their God.

That maybe the reason why you would have wanted to hide from Ivar the survival of the Greeks was not for them to be safe from him, but for you to allow yourself to live in a fantasy where the borrowed time, the winter, could last a lifetime.

You never considered it, and now you live with a weight on you that for once is caused by you telling the truth. Sometimes you wonder about the irony of it all.

You insisted to Ivar that nothing changed, that nothing _had to change_ , but we don’t change the past or the present by telling a different tale.

And so things have changed. In the few days that have gone by since Ivar learned of their survival, of your meeting with Galla, a lot has changed, but at the same time, enough remains the same for you to pretend otherwise.

Pretend you don’t notice Ivar falter and hesitate at the sight of your gentleness, pretend you don’t feel the sting of pain when he sometimes rejects your affection, pretend you don’t feel your chest pull tight in pain and something else -something like nostalgia- when his eyes gain this haunted look even in the middle of something as innocuous as having dinner together.

This morning, his eyes are bluer than you’ve ever seen them, and he’s very obviously struggling, much more so than the day you saw him snap a bone out of place.

You eye him carefully as he tightens the iron braces around his legs, following his movements from your place at the foot of the bed, sitting with your legs hidden from the cold under your body and under a fur you’ve draped over them. Your refusal to get up has been deliberate, if only an attempt to lure him into choosing to not over exert himself by pretending everything is as usual.

Carefully, you start, “I don’t think you should-…”

“Ah, but I didn’t ask what you think.” He interrupts, not looking at you.

He can be annoying and infuriating when he wants to be, you know that. Knowing it doesn’t make the swell of irritation within you any lesser, but it does help you push past it, and insist,

“Just…come back to bed. If not for your sake, for mine. I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“No,” He states, unflinching, unwavering. But there’s a raw edge to it, a tinge of desperation in his resolve. Ivar stabs the crutch on the ground with more strength than needed, squares his shoulders and lifts his head. “I don’t get to stop my wife from sneaking out of our kingdom while I’m gone, I don’t get to decide when she decides to leave me,” His nose furrows in anger, and yet all that overcomes him is determination, “But I get to control this.”

“So you’ll break your bones just to hold on to control?” You call out, but he doesn’t reply with anything other than a grunt, leaving you alone in your room.

____

After more than half a day spent working with the women at the apothecary, and pointedly ignoring Valdís’ glares when she questions just why her son insists on her dipping him on the river holding him by the ankle; your relative peace is interrupted by a familiar-looking thrall coming into the home asking for a solution for the pain.

You step out from near the hearth, and Freydis shares a glance with you and steps back from the man, who looks at you with wide eyes.

You almost feel sorry for the way he seems to either fear you or your husband’s wrath so much so that his words stumble over each other as he tells you Ivar fell while inspecting the walls and broke his leg, but your sympathy for him is quickly overshadowed by concern -and more than a bit of righteous anger, because _you told him so_ \- for the man you married.

You dismiss him with short orders, and when you turn around Freydis holds a batch of comfrey in her hands, not hesitating, not even needing your words, to help you gather what you need. Her blue eyes shine with warmth when you thank her.

You are in your room waiting for him -but pretending not to by busying your hands with a mixture of chickweed seeds and primrose- when you hear the familiar pattern if Ivar’s steps, though they sound slower and more faltering than usual, and are accompanied by sounds of pain that make you grit your teeth.

“What are you doing here?”

If you weren’t told he had injured himself, that… _warm_ welcome would have certainly let you know something was wrong.

“Have you forgotten this is my room too, love?”

“You aren’t subtle.” Ivar says, unnaturally-blue eyes set on you, even as he steps further into the room.

You answer with a shrug, “Never pretended to be.”

“They’ve put a cast on it already,” He tells you, and you can’t help but notice him not directly acknowledging the fact that he broke a bone. You eye the lower part of his left leg for a moment before meeting his gaze again. Ivar insists, “I don’t need you here.”

“I want to be here,” You reply, before changing the subject and asking, “You’ve sent scouts to find out where my people are, haven’t you?”

Ivar straightens where he stands, making himself taller and bigger, even though it makes the pain he is in all the more apparent. You have half a mind to scold him, but you bite back the words.

“Want to know where they are?” He taunts, but your answer is instantaneous,

“No.”

You make him falter for a moment; you witness the faint trembling of the mask he so cruelly wears. And there’s an inkling of regret within you, a voice telling you to remember that all you have done -and continue to do- is take away certainties from Ivar. Even if it is defeated and painful certainties, for the man you love it is better to hold on to scalding iron than to have nothing to hold on to.

Then again, he took much more than certainties from you, you think, but your soft heart keeps you from following that line of thought too far down.

He doesn’t say anything else, choosing instead to move carefully to the bed. You hear him working on the heavy iron contraptions, and you try to keep your attention on your work, but your every sense is attuned to him.

“Your Goddess, and what Hades did to keep her,” He starts suddenly, startling you with the choice of topic. Still, you are grateful he no longer insists on trying to get rid of you. “You never thought it a trick, I know that.”

You never told him that. Granted, you never told anyone that, about how you always wondered if the temptation wasn’t really hunger, if the trick wasn’t one at all.

But it doesn’t surprise you anymore how Ivar seems to be capable of seeing you bare of all lies and pretenses. He has since that first time you met, since those first conversations.

You shrug your shoulders, and turn to him, still holding the mortar and pestle in your hands.

“We can be forced to do many things. Go somewhere, even if that is another realm; accept a title, even if it is one that implies binds of marriage. But we cannot be forced to be loyal to someone.”

“So you think she chose him.”

“Chose to love him, yes. For anything else, she didn’t have a choice.”

“Who did, then?” He asks, moving to settle better where he sits with a grunt of pain that you narrow your eyes at. “Your Hades certainly didn’t either, she still leaves him each spring. That isn’t a deal that sounds like a choice, hm?”

“You cannot change nature with a trick, Ivar.”

“Ah, but it wasn’t a trick,” He lifts a finger to point at you, annoyingly smug about his retort. “I think you insist on saying there wasn’t a choice to make because you don’t like accepting the choice made, _wife_.”

_“Your mother worshiped the Goddess of death and you still insist she was good and pure?” The Viking woman sneers, fingers toying with the carved statue of your Goddess._

_“My mother worshiped Despoina, there’s a difference. The God of death is Thanatos. Despoina, she is the Queen of the Underworld.” You reply cautiously, because you know she has to know the difference, and you have the strange feeling of walking into a trap. Eventually, eyeing Sieghild with a smirk when she purses her lips, you press, “What. You surely have something to say about that.”_

_She shrugs, reaching for her ale and drinking before replying, “Our queens are not usually married to their captors.”_

_“He gave her a crown in exchange for her hand. Would you refuse?” You scoff back, as if the answer should be as clear to her as it is to you. “Hades offered her himself and his kingdom, Sieghild. A king and his reign are no small bride price.”_

_She starts to show a smile that tells you that in her own language of runes and one-eyed Gods she sees a deeper meaning to your answer. When you were a child you would almost fear her tales of tortured Gods and strange creatures, but now you see in those tales of fall and triumph the same honor and the same glory that Sieghild sees in them, and you delight in talking with her about her Gods and your own._

_“In your Godddess’ place, would you want a king or a kingdom, little one?” She teases, and you take a sip of your wine with a smile on your lips._

_“Are we not talking of the Gods?”_

_“Humor me.”_

_After a moment of consideration, you offer, “A kingdom would limit me. A king would offer me countless kingdoms if I so wanted.”_

_The Viking laughs, in that way of hers that speaks of a life of freedoms women in your home could never dream of, green eyes piercing on yours when she asks darkly, “And you still believe Kore was stolen?”_

Unable to hold back the anger born out of uncertainty, you snap, “Since when are you so certain of the stories of _my Gods_ , Viking?”

Ivar offers a smile, surprisingly enough not a smug or a taunting one, and instead one that is almost tender.

He considers you, head titled to the side, before he states, “I wasn’t talking about any Gods.”

And you’re face to face with too many truths for you to breathe easy, so you clear your throat and return your eyes and attention to your work.

“Willow should help with the pain, as it did last time.” You tell him instead, gathering the small vial of dark liquid and almost cringing at what you remember to be the most bitter drink you ever tasted. You hand it to Ivar, who surprises you by not arguing and downing the awful-tasting tisane in one gulp.

As you return to your small table to gather rolls of thick linen and the mixture you’ve known by heart for a while, Ivar lays down on the bed, but he is far from willing to succumb to the pain or sleep, and watches you raptly as you move about.

His eyes narrow at the things you bring with you to the bed.

“And what is that for?”

“Salves and presses always work best, especially with injuries like these,” You explain simply, noting the way he immediately sets to argue and rushing to insist, “I want to help, and you have no reason not to let me,” You state, unwavering. For emphasis, you raise your chin and remind him, “I’m the best healer in Kattegat.”

“I didn’t marry you because you were a healer, I don’t need your help.”

“I could argue once again that there ought to be a reason why the woman you married is a gifted healer, but I know it would be pointless, since our marriage was fated by the Gods only when it’s convenient to you,” You point out, the slightest tone of tease in your voice, “Instead, consider this from my perspective.”

Ivar’s chest expands in a slow breath, but he bites, “Which is?”

“That the man I love is in pain, and I know how to help.”

“You already gave me the…the tisane that worked last. It is done with,” He offers, the tell of irritation and anger at being put on the spot like this clear in his tone as he speaks, “You don’t have to…touch them, or s-see them.”

“Ivar…”

_I didn’t want you to…to see. Thought I could make you forget._ He told you once, the mark of pain heavy on his stance and his expression, and an uncharacteristic resignation lacing his voice.

It surprises you, even though you know you should know him better than to expect any different, that a part of him, however quietened in these months of faint moments of pain and scarce episodes of what he perceives as weakness, still tries to keep his condition from you.

You know that rationally Ivar knows he can’t exactly hide it from you. From the way he walks, to the very clear tell of the blue hue of his eyes, there’s not much he could ever do to keep you from noticing.

But he admitted to it himself, to wanting to keep you from noticing the graver problems with his legs, to wanting to hide from you the way sometimes the pain gets to be too much to bear. In these last few days, it has become more and more apparent, with him adverting his gaze when you mention the blue tone of his eyes; refusing to let you see him bare even if he has seen you countless times since you’ve crossed _that_ barrier days ago; and even now, after everything, not letting you do the one thing you’ve been taught to do all your life.

“You know you don’t have to,” He tells you, looking pointedly over your shoulder, refusing to meet your gaze but still too stubborn to lower his eyes. “J-Just leave it be, it will heal, everything will be n-normal soon, and I-…”

You interrupt him with a soft call of his name, silencing his protests and making his eyes finally meet yours. Your chest pulls tight at the apprehension and the uncertainty you see written in them, but you do not falter.

“Trust me?” Is all you ask, voice quiet and eyes set unwaveringly on him. Your stomach tightens as you watch the conflict in his expression, and pale blue eyes search yours looking for something you aren’t sure he finds because you don’t know what it is.

Eventually, Ivar takes a breath, a breath that you think was supposed to be a deep breath but sounds only shaky and sharp, and nods his head. You exhale slowly, knowing what it means that he allows you this, that he trusts you with this, and move further down on the bed so you sit on your side next to the length of his legs, your own folded underneath you.

You need only lift the left leg of the pants a little over his knee, but Ivar tenses and coils his body tight as if you are baring him of any armor. In a way, maybe you are.

Hands carefully folded over his stomach, you catch a glimpse of a tremble in them before he tightens his hold on his own fingers, knuckles white and the trembling once again under careful control. You spare only a glance, before completely focusing on his exposed leg.

It is frailly thin, though you didn’t really expect any different, and it looks knobby and bears many scars, some deeper than others.

You linger on the badly-set bone that has long since healed in a bad position, and wonder how long it has been since a proper healer has tended to a fracture like this. Still, the latest of the breaks has been properly set and the linen put around it seems strong enough.

You take it off trying to move Ivar’s leg as little as possible, and think what kind of cast the men and women that have taught you to be a healer would use for this, wondering what improvements or changes they would make to work around the braces Ivar wears, that you know are not made with comfort for a broken bone in mind.

“T-Talk,” Ivar orders gruffly, startling you from your work on the comfrey and the ganglong you are so lucky to have found all the way in Scandinavia. You lift your head to look at him, but Ivar doesn’t meet your eyes, looking intently at the ceiling. At your silence, he insists, “It is never good when you’re quiet. Talk.”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

“Are you in a lot of pain?”

“I said talk, not ask questions.” He replies shortly, clear tell of gritted teeth in his voice. You don’t know if because of annoyance or pain, but you are smart enough to figure that it is best not to ask.

“Well,” You mumble, blinking a couple of times before you find something to say, “I once was mentored by a man that could know where a bone had been merely splintered with but a touch. I am…not nearly as proficient yet,” You smile slightly at the memory. He was from so far East that the people that traveled with you used to whisper he was from another Empire, and he had strict ways but he was a good teacher. You continue, “I’m using a plant he taught me to work with. Helps with healing, and with swelling. Not so much with pain. Comfrey helps with that,” You recall another memory and chuckle to yourself as you press the salve onto Ivar’s cold skin, and continue, “I…I was taught comfrey is incredibly useful when healing broken bones when I just started working as a healer, and I was still young, and…careless. Once, my mother was badly hurt in a battle. She had some of her ribs badly bruised, and was also nicked by a spear. They wrapped her torso with treatment for her wound before her bones, of course,” You mention, wrapping the press of herbs with a linen around Ivar’s shin. You are careful not to jostle the leg too much in fear of causing him further pain, but he doesn’t complain, and you continue, “And I was, uh, I was really worried about her ribs, so I made her an infusion using comfrey. Turns out, comfrey isn’t very safe for people to…consume. Sieghild was awfully sick for more than a week, threatened to poison my food as retribution for almost a month,” You fasten the cast he had before once again around the thin calf, and your voice turns wistful when you finish, “And she never let me forget it. Every time I made her an infusion, she would make me list the ingredients I used for it.”

You finish your work and after rolling the leg of the pant back down, you move the warm blankets and furs to cover both his legs and yours.

You look back up at Ivar, moving up on the bed so you are almost level with his face, and for as long as he needs to, you lay there, eyes on his and comfortably close even if a part of you grows anxious and searches desperately for something to say to make him lose the cautious and almost afraid edge.

His hand first settles on your wrist, lingering for a few beats before it moves up to grasp at your fingers, and you squeeze back without hesitation, lifting your joined hands to press a kiss against his knuckles, smiling up at him.

The warm specks of a dying sun linger on the room and make it feel somehow warmer, and smaller, more _yours_.

“I won’t do anything to the Greeks,” He starts suddenly, startling you. You hadn’t considered he would, if you are honest. Whether that makes you incredibly naïve or it makes him something other than the man that chained you, you don’t know if you want to hear the answer. Ivar takes a breath, the only indication he intends to continue talking before silence reigns between you for a few heartbeats. His voice is quiet but unwavering when he promises, “I love you, and…I know I have to let you leave.”

For a moment, with his voice so strikingly alike what it sounded like the night you told him of the Greeks, where he repeated out loud certainties for you to reassure him of and him to hold on to; you wonder whether he is trying to give you a few certainties of your own.

You try offering a smile that speaks of jest, though you are certain something much more saddened than what you intend is the result.

“They are technically your people too, you know.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, looking intently ahead and taking a deep breath before offering,

“You insist it is easy, you insist that…that nothing changed. That I should accept whatever time is left and forget that I promised to allow you to leave me,” His voice grows angrier and angrier the longer he speaks, but when he takes a breath, the anger is overshadowed by something else, and Ivar continues, “It isn’t easy, but I-…sometimes I forget. Sometimes you look happy here, with me, and I…I forget you’re leaving me.”

Your throat feels tight at his words, and your heart beats quickly as if trying to outrun the pain that fills your chest.

At the pain you hear in his voice, a pain _you_ put there, it feels like your heart, no-longer-yours and trying to leave your chest with each of its beats, asks you to admit the shame and the failure and the damnation of _I wish I never had to leave_.

But you can’t, you can only remain quiet and advert your eyes to the side even if Ivar isn’t even looking in your direction.

“I’m…I’m being torn apart,” He confesses in a breath that shakes past his lips, eyebrows slightly raised as his expression trembles, as his strength crumbles and breaks your heart along with it. “I want to-…Sometimes I forget you are leaving, and I can pretend you won’t have to make a choice, and I am…” You cling to the way his words hang in the air between you, not realizing you lean closer and stall your breathing as if to hear the confession, not realizing until that moment how desperate you are to hear that he feels _happy_. But he doesn’t say it, shaking his head and returning the hardness to his tone, “But at the same time I need to remind myself that you are going to make a choice, that you _will_ leave, because if I don’t…”

The words hang between you, but you don’t have the courage to ask him to continue, and you also don’t have the words to reply with, so silence too hangs between you soon enough.

Ivar turns on his side with a grunt of pain, and you don’t hesitate to move closer and lift your arm, his head a comfortable weight against your chest and his breaths, though labored and still hinting at a pain you cannot even imagine, familiar and warm against you.

“You should sleep,” You tell him softly, your fingers running through his hair in what you hope is a calming manner. Judging by the way his eyes flutter closed, you dare believe it is. Without thinking, you promise, “I’ll stay with you.”

You intend it to be the promise to remain in this bed for as long as he does, to keep him company and do what you can with your voice and your touch to soothe away the pain; but the moment the words leave your lips it feels like a weight dropped on you, like the reminder of the choice you will have to make.

For a moment, a fragile moment that you barely give time to be before you smother the foolish fantasy away, you pretend this is a promise you can make, and that it can mean forever and not a night.

If Ivar notices your poor choice of words, he doesn’t give it away.

Still, at your silence he speaks out, voice rougher with the pull of sleep, his words a little drawled out.

“If it wasn’t…pomegranates, what is it that keeps her there?”

You know to him they are just tales, but his curiosity for the world that has made you who you are and the Gods you’ll always hold dear to you never ceases to be…endearing, in its own way.

“I don’t know,” You answer truthfully. “This isn’t what we discuss at the temple, this isn’t…this isn’t what we are taught.”

“Were you never curious?”

“I didn’t have time to be. I left Greece when I was still a child, and when I returned…it seemed fitting, that she was truly stolen of a choice.”

“You told me some say she walked into the Underworld.”

“Yet she was still trapped, that part never changes.” You smile sadly, and for a moment when you blink you see warm eyes and olive skin and a sad smile that speaks of a man fully aware of your lies and choosing to love you anyways, choosing to trap you anyways. In that moment, you understand why her story meant comfort to you all your life.

She was the maiden taken forcefully from her home, forced away from her mother and her land; you were a child clutching a wooden statuette of her and watching your birth mother burn, with Sieghild’s rough and unfamiliar hands guiding you on a path away from Greece.

She was the woman forced to marry a man she didn’t love, by deals of the Gods that ruled over her life and by her own mistakes; and you were a monster, a desperate one at that, whispering promises of love in Narses’ ear, earning what you wanted alongside heavy chains to be put on you.

She was queen of a world that was so unlike her, and a wife to a man many called a monster, alone and nostalgic; and you were dragged here by Ivar and told that by the will of his might alone he would make you wife and queen, no matter how much you fought against it.

And…and then she was a woman laughing under a red veil, lips stained with pomegranates and blood, and the winter meant home and love and belonging; and you learned to look into Ivar’s eyes and see a future even when you knew you couldn’t.

_Chosen by Persephone_ , they always called you, since long before your birth. Child of the flower fields of Eleusis, they thought you to be destined to be yet another Hiereia under the warmth of Attica’s sun; they didn’t see the hunger, the heart that belonged elsewhere, they never imagined you to be one destined to delve into another realm to become its queen and never wish to return.

Lost in your thoughts, in your revelations, for so long that you don’t notice the passing of time, you only gauge how long you were lost by the way Ivar’s weight is a little heavier on you; by the way he is relaxed and pliant against you, even if shaken occasionally by a shiver or a tremble of the aftershocks of pain.

“Maybe they don’t tell us about whether or not she had a choice because she didn’t,” You whisper, voice so quiet you barely hear yourself. In the deep rise and fall of his chest, even if still interrupted by the quiet staggering in its pattern due to the pain, you are told he isn’t conscious anymore. Still, you continue your soft caress of the side of his face, and you continue speaking, “Or maybe it’s because she did, and she chose…chose love. Seems awfully selfish, though, doesn’t it?”

Your mother, the mother of sad smiles and a lost war, always told you that between love and duty one must always prevail. Between the earth under our feet and the sky over our heads, between what we must do and what we want to do, we must always choose.

Maybe she was never speaking of her plight, or in some prophetic way of yours, when she told you those things. Maybe she too wondered what temptation truly meant, whether there had been a trick at all; and she was whispering the truth about the Goddess of spring disguised as a warning.

You doze off, your fingers still carefully running through Ivar’s hair and your senses still attuned to him and his pain.

You wake up not because Ivar does, but because you hear something. For a moment, you think it to be him, but as the daze of sleep leaves you, you realize what it is.

The cry of a hawk.

Your blood runs cold, and with shaking hands and a heart that beats furiously in your ears you move your body from under Ivar and walk to the small balcony that overlooks Kattegat.

The sky is darkening, once again too late for a hawk to be hunting. Once again, it is too close, and its cry is too familiar for it to be anything other than Galla’s trusted beast.

You watch with wide eyes as the hawk flies above you, shrill cries piercing your head and your heart.

And a part of you that has been for too long too cowardly to face not the choice, but what the choice you’d make would say about you and who you are; that part of you begs and pleads in that moment.

You plead for more time, but the Gods have granted you time already.

And you once pleaded for a choice to make, and now the Gods demand you make it.

_“His name will be Zephyr.”_

_“Why that name? He isn’t the fastest, or the strongest, out of the winds.” You mention casually, and Galla doesn’t take her eyes of her beast, smiling widely as it takes a piece of meat from her fingers._

_“Because Zepyhr brings forth life, opportunity,_ change _,” She chuckles, before knocking her shoulder with yours teasingly, “I may not be as versed as you in the worship of Demeter and Kore,_ Hiereia _, but I know the gift that spring is.”_

_“And so you hold a special place for the one that brings forth the winds of the spring?”_

_She shrugs, fearless as she reaches under the hawk’s head and scritches at its feather’s, making it ruffle them and accept her affection. It never ceases to surprise you, how easily the beast has taken to her._

_“Zephyr is the one that makes change happen. He is the one that time and time again guides Despoina home.”_

_You accept her words with a sigh, and reach for the piece of venison on the plate at her side, offering the raw meat to the animal, and smiling when it takes sit, though much more guardedly than when Galla offered the same._

_“You hope it can guide us home?”_

_She chuckles, goes back to petting it, “I know he can.”_

You stand there and watch Zephyr circle the longhouse, the cries louder once he sees you standing there. But all you can do is watch.

There was a girl, you don’t think you’ll ever forget her. You saw her first and last while working as a healer in some dusty city near Kufa. You were ambushed during the night, the cavalry of some enemy army broke past the defenses and were nearing the camp.

The hooves of their horses marched wildly over the dry earth, and Sieghild was cursing in her own tongue as she guided you both to the safety the soldiers provided.

But this girl, this thin and frail Arab girl, stood there, not moving, not breathing.

The ground trembled under the enemy’s might, the soldiers around you barked orders and prepared to defend, but she…she stood there, and watched them come.

Like she could keep time frozen in her small hands if she didn’t move, like she could hold on to life for as long as she held her breath.

You called for her. She still didn’t move. You screamed when the horses trampled her. She didn’t move again, and you didn’t even find her body in the aftermath.

And now you stand there in the small balcony, looking at the darkening sky like that wide-eyed girl looked at those incoming horses, frozen like she was.

You hear Zephyr’s call echo through the high skies of Kattegat and it sounds like the hooves of a hundred war horses wildly marching on cold ground.

You told Galla if she was ever to need you to send Zephyr to the skies, and you promised you’d be there. She needs you; _they_ need you, and you promised you’d answer. You are their Anassa, their Hiereia; for the titles you bear and for your mother’s legacy it is your duty to answer their call.

Your hands tighten on the wooden railing, but still you turn your head to gaze into the dim light of your room, Ivar still resting on the bed you share. He trusts you; he loves you, and in another life you wouldn’t have hesitated to promise him forever. You are his wife, the woman he loves; for all the love you have for him you wish that you could be only that.

It was never Stithulf, it was never pomegranates; what forced a choice, what forced a change.

It was spring. From the first of its winds, it was spring what would force you to choose.

You just hoped winter would last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....so yeah, s p r i n g. 
> 
> What do you think will happen?
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading, please let me know what you think!


	40. Chapter 40

_Run if you want to; fight, kick, scream._

You told him the Greeks being alive changed nothing, and while he argued and insisted otherwise, you remained certain. Now, now you realize Ivar was right.

Them being alive meant being an Anassa was not some distant title awaiting for you somewhere in Greece, them being alive meant the Priestess you once were wasn’t allowed to rest amongst the dead where she belonged.

Them being alive meant that there would come a day where your bond to them and your bond to Ivar would pull you in two different directions, and that you would have to let go of one of them.

And now they have come to find you, they call for you with their familiar language and their warm memories and their land of flower fields and nostalgia. And yet at your back is the man you love, and he offers you a lifetime of strange customs and cold nights and his kingdom of iron and death.

And you can’t pretend there isn’t a choice to make for any longer.

You can’t pretend you haven’t known what your choice would be for a long time, maybe since the start of it all.

Because you are asked to give up one night in the familiar warmth of your bedroom and at the same time you are asked to forget for one more night that there isn’t a world past _him_ ; and you realize there isn’t a difference between one night and one lifetime.

_Fate will drag you home by the wrists, child._

The sky remains the same as the Gods demand you make your choice, the earth is still solid under your feet as you walk the path you have chosen, the wind is biting and cold even if it speaks of the change of spring.

You leave behind a part of you, on the path you didn’t take, on the choice you couldn’t make; and as your heart breaks in two, as your eyes fill with tears, as a part of you dies and descents, you can’t help but think bitterly that the world now should be as changed as you are.

And you realize then, as you force shaking legs to move, that the world didn’t change when Persephone made her choice, but that didn’t mean she didn’t make one.

The skies didn’t tremble and shiver as when Zeus condemned her, the earth wasn’t split in two as when Hades first took her, the fields and flowers didn’t wither and die as when Demeter mourned her.

The world didn’t change, and so the stories never spoke of the day she made her choice. And us mortals were nearsighted enough to believe there hadn’t been a choice to be made.

_You know how this tale goes._

You close your eyes tightly against Zephyr’s cries, and your tears leave a burning trail down your skin. When you lick your lips, the salt of your tears tastes sweet, like the sweetest of fruits.

It has been so many years since you were allowed a bite of it, but you still remember what it tasted like. Like the unknown, like freedom, like temptation.

You hold on tightly to the wood at your side, stopping only for a second.

For a second, you can close your eyes and be there again, surrounded by tall stone walls of the temple in a time before the mark of soot and pain on your heart, with the soft lull of the Aegean lapping at the soft sands of the shore filling your ears.

Narses’ warm and raspy voice calmly talking his men through training, the elders’ always-cold and always-soft touches as they passed you by during the day, the wide-eyed look of the younger girls that wanted to become Hiereiai, Galla’s secret smile as you two shared a look and the shine in her dark eyes that spoke of trust and understanding.

But the woman that lived among them is not the woman you are anymore. You haven’t been her for years. Even on the day you were first called Anassa, the woman that could have been it, been their leader and queen, was already dead and gone.

And try as you might, you can’t imagine a life where you can come back to it, to _them._

The wood creaks under your tightening grip, and the screech of the falcon rings in your head. And you look back, and whisper an apology.

And close the door.

You once imagined if maybe all of this had been nothing but your descent, and it isn’t too hard to imagine all that has happened to be nothing but the path that leads to your death. That has led to it.

And if the Gods let you, you want for nothing other than this death. Let the Hiereia that died in Eleusis amongst the flames rest with those that perished for her and with her; let the Anassa that out of guilt and the burden of legacy earned a hollow crown die too.

Let you be reborn.

Because you sink into familiar warmth surrounded by an unfamiliar world, and you can’t find it in yourself to wish for anything to be any different.

Drawing your legs up, you curl your body behind Ivar’s, your face buried between his shoulder blades and your eyes shut tightly.

More than once you imagined what a life alongside him could have been, if you had never known the binds of legacy that kept you tethered to Greece and her people. More than once you almost wished for your Fate to had been other, and a world where you could have never been anything other than a healer from the Silk Roads.

You never dared imagine, or wish for, a life at his side after you were made Anassa of the Attic Greeks. It felt like a betrayal of who they wanted you to be, to want to stay at his side, to love him, to see a future in this realm of cold and death.

But that is what you have chosen, that is…what you’ll have.

A murmur of your name, quiet and a little slurred by sleep, and you tighten your hold.

“I’m here,” You promise, an incredulous smile on your lips. And because you can, because you choose to, you vow, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to chase away with the soft sounds of his breaths the cries of the falcon that circles the longhouse almost till nightfall. In your mind, _in your dreams_ , it flies over you with that mournful cry until the morning.

When you wake up it is due to the by now familiar sounds of Ivar moving about the room. When you force yourself to open your eyes, he is already dressed and the braces on his legs safely secured.

He seems to linger, debating with himself whether to leave or to wake you. It is unusual for him to start his day apart from you, and you have made sure in these months to try to be there to offer, if nothing else, a quiet murmur of his name and a smile before he is to leave. You never actually considered it meant much to him, if you’re honest.

When you sit up in the bed, Ivar greets you with a soft mumble of your name, before deciding to lean against one of the nearby tables, watching you as you start your routine as well, patiently waiting for you to walk to him and turn your back for him to lace up your dress.

You turn around, remaining close, and let your hands settle over his chest, idly correcting the way his clothes set over him.

His hand is surprisingly gentle as he tilts your head up. Pale blue eyes search your face, and he asks, “You look tired. Dreams?”

You shake your head, “No, I…Galla was here, last night.”

He blinks, almost owlishly. “Here?”

“Outside Kattegat.”

Whatever ease that was written in his posture, whatever openness that was clear in his eyes; vanish before your eyes and the unfaltering edge of the man that you faced during those first months is all that is left.

And you cannot look at the carefully held distance, the perfected façade of the man in control, so you lower your gaze.

“She came to find you,” It isn’t a question, you know it isn’t, but you can’t help but wonder if a part of him wants you to deny it. You can’t exactly blame or judge him for wanting to believe their return a mistake, if you’re honest. Ivar takes a breath, “You didn’t go.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“They want you with them.”

“But I want to be _here_.” You sentence, maybe a bit harshly.

You lift your gaze to look into familiar blue eyes, and find a tentative _something_ looking back, something that a less cautious man would let become hope.

Ivar swallows, eyebrows lifting slightly as if to question you, before he keeps the words at bay, lips forming around the beginning of your name but falling short of uttering anything.

Leaving your lips there should be words about how there was never a choice to be made, or how it was something you had chosen a long time ago but never dared admit; there should be promises that you chose, and the world didn’t change but you did and that you do not regret a thing; there should be apologies to the woman you were and the people that loved you for proving right those who said to love a Hiereia of Persephone is a cruel fate; there should be reassurances that you never spoke truer words than when you told him you loved him above anything and above anyone.

But you choke on shame and guilt, and your words are kept at bay not only by the voices of your past demanding to know why you have forsaken them, but by the press of Ivar’s lips on yours.

When you part, he motions for you to go get ready, tells you to get on with your day. You aren’t certain if him holding on to normalcy like this is a good or a bad thing anymore.

____

It was always frighteningly easy, to forget there was a world past him, but as you step out of the longhouse, the cloak wrapped tightly around you, you cannot help but take your eyes to the skies, searching for a bird, a messenger, that you know won’t be there.

You told her you’d be there if they needed you, you told her to send Zephyr to the skies with the certainty that you’d answer the call. But the time came, and when they needed you and he needed you, the choice was frighteningly easy, and you couldn’t answer their call.

You notice the cold in your hands when delicate and dainty fingers wrap around yours, and Freydis’ deep blue eyes look at you with countless questions. You realize then you’ve walked to the edge of the city, and stand before the tallest stretch of the wall, the barrier to the forest, to another realm, to a life you had left behind long before you were brave enough to admit you had.

Freydis doesn’t say anything, taking you to her home with the same ease as that night when she guided you through darkened streets to the place where you could cross that barrier and embrace your oldest friend and remember what the warmth of Eleusis felt like.

You stand in the small and humble home, and you cannot keep the words from your lips,

“You saw Zephyr, you saw the...the falcon, right?”

“I did,” She confirms, unwaveringly honest as she adds, “I went past the walls, I met the woman. Galla.”

That she did what you did not should hurt you, should make the pit of shame and guilt at the base of your stomach grow tighter, but you only have breath for one question, 

“D-Did she tell you why she was here? What did they need, wh-…?”

“She is well, and so are the rest, as far as she told me,” At her silence you almost want to ask for more, but the blonde is quicker, and explains, “That is all you need to know. That is all you _want_ to know.”

You drop down on the chair behind you, your head held in your hands and your breaths shaking their way past your lips.

“That’s unfair.” You say, but she remains impassive, unnerving you.

“You could have gone to them, but you didn’t.”

“No,” You are forced to accept, the word leaving your lips in a breath. Lifting your head, you state, “Freydis, I-…they needed me, and I…”

“And you stayed with him.” Freydis finishes for you, but there isn’t bite in her tone, there isn’t an accusation. You almost wish there were.

You grit your teeth at the sob that threatens to break free, but pride and something else keep you from closing your eyes tight, stubborn resilience and something else make you straighten your back and raise your chin.

“I did.”

Freydis betrays a smile. It is faint, it is still tainted with something like pain and something hidden.

“And do you regret it?”

And past the loss of the familiar, past the unsteadiness of walking without chains, past the guilt of making a choice…you smile.

The answer that leaves your lips is unwavering, “No.”

The blonde’s smile widens, and her eyes crinkle a little bit when she does, dark blue shining more vibrant than you have seen in a long time.

“You chose, and you chose him.”

“I did.” You tell her, smile wobbling but honest.

She sits down in front of you, voice quiet and eyes on yours with an openness born out of too many similar scars. Her hand grasps yours and she squeezes tightly.

“Freedom is a terrifying thing, isn’t it?”

____

You find yourself following your routine -the world didn’t shake, or tremble, or change- and you enter the apothecary home, grateful for the reprieve from the biting cold of Kattegat’s winter.

“Witch!” Valdís calls out, her grudge against you for making Aghi insist that his mother dip him in the river like Thetis did to Achilles seemingly forgotten for the time being.

You greet her with a smile, and as she tells you she is working on some remedies for fever for a family near the outskirts of Kattegat whose five children came down with a sickness due to the winter; you sit next to her and start helping.

“My boy has stopped insisting I drown him in some river, by the way.”

“It is not drowning, it i-…”

“I really don’t care, witch,” She interrupts, but there’s jest in her tone, not malice, and you only roll your eyes at her, but still smile. The shieldmaiden chuckles, “At least he has forgotten about that, and about threatening the sun with arrows. Aghi won’t let go about that boat of black sails, though.”

“Theseus?”

“The idiot that forgot to change the sails for white ones.”

Gods, for a moment it is like talking with Sieghild once again.

With a nod of your head, you confirm, “Theseus.”

Valdís shares a reluctant smile with you, fond exasperation in her pale gaze.

“Frigg help me, my boy will go raiding one day and insist they put white sails on his boats.”

For the first time you let yourself imagine it, seeing Valdís’ son grow to become a man. Seeing him go raid and explore when the time comes.

Unbidden, Aghi’s image in your mind is replaced by images of children of your own, children that too will one day grow and go raid and explore, maybe alongside their father, maybe even alongside Aghi.

And maybe they will insist on putting white sails on their boats for the sake of their foreign woman of a mother that waits for them to return.

And for once the dream doesn’t seem impossible, for once the hope doesn’t have to fight against nostalgia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...? I’m really curious to know whether her choice surprised you or not tbh
> 
> Of course, there’s the particular aspect of telling him, but she’ll get there. Let it be known that she tried to tell him, but he didn’t wanna hear it bc pessimism. Anyhow, I hope this was okay, I’m not so sure but I hope it’s just my insecurity talking. Thank you for reading!


	41. Chapter 41

When you go into the main hall later that night, a call of your name in a voice you know by heart diverts your attention from anything else.

You answer Ivar’s call and stand next to him, nodding distractedly at the thrall that offers you wine. She scurries off to fetch you some, and a memory you long since believed lost comes to the front of your mind.

_“Drink,” Sieghild tells you, offering you a cup. You take it between shaking fingers, and the shieldmaiden looks back ahead, in the direction of the grave. “That is how we mourn. We drink.”_

_You cannot keep the snide tone from your voice as you sit next to her, “Ah, you_ Vikings _and your celebration of death.”_

_“You worship the Gods of the Underworld, little one,” She states without missing a beat, lifting the goblet of wine to her lips. She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, a silent command you do the same. You sip from the sweet drink, but your throat still feels tight, and your hands still shake. Sieghild clears her throat, “We rejoice when someone sups in Valhalla even if that means they aren’t with us, true. But we are people just like yours, little one, we all suffer at the loss of someone we love,” She takes another sip of the wine, green eyes stuck on the hill that now bears the grave of a mother and her child. “Drinking the way we do for those who are gone from our side, it isn’t as a celebration, it is coated in despair, in pain, as much as your own rituals. We drink because we want to…to be…”_

_“Numb?”_

_Your mother chuckles, “Maybe, but we are too proud to call it that.”_

Still, you don’t feel like mourning, you don’t feel like this is grief. It feels like death, like a descent, like rebirth; but to you none of that means grief.

Ivar distracts you from your morose thoughts with hands on your hips. He looks up at you with a smile that is a tad more vibrant than usual.

“Tell Ubbe about the…the…” His brows furrow in a gesture you cannot help but find utterly adorable. “C-Chi-la…”

Ivar’s eyes search your as if you are supposed to know what he is trying to say.

Your eyes narrow, but you think you know what he means, and try, “ _Chiliarchiai_?”

Ivar nods, smiling up at you as his hand on your waist moves further down and back, almost groping your ass before you stop him with your hand over his and a silent glare of reprimand that he only grins at.

“Tell him about them.” He insists, a liveliness in his voice you heard only scarce times before. Ivar motions with his head towards his brother, making your eyes slowly leave him to focus on Ubbe.

The eldest prince already has eyes on the both of you, and when you look at him, he lingers on looking between you and his brother before giving you his attention, leaning back on his seat.

Taking a seat next to Ivar and hoping you are subtle in the way you press close to him to dispel the cold, you start explaining, gesturing with your hands as you point out the different parts of the Byzantine army, and how they fight back in the Mediterranean.

Ubbe’s eyes stay on yours, and he leans his weight forward, blue eyes piercing as he tries taking in what you are saying. Eventually, he clears his throat to stop you.

“You are using a lot of words, and I don’t know the meaning to most of them.” Ubbe interrupts, a slight apology behind his tone. You nod, eyes searching the nothing ahead as you try putting a definition behind the words in your own tongue.

“The Skoutatoi are…warriors.”

“They all are, love.” Ivar interrupts, a mocking smile that he hides behind the rim of his cup when you turn to glare at him.

Ignoring his words, you explain further, “They carry shields and use either spears or longswords.”

Ubbe lifts a hand to point at you, as if to indicate he’s figured something out.

“Yes, we saw them. You formed a shield wall with warriors with spears in Dublin.”

“Yes, that was a _phalanx_ , but we could never be as efficient as the Byzantines. For the Empire’s armies it is easy to lead and to hold on to plans, but for us…if we didn’t have Narses it wasn’t so easy to hold formations.”

“The commander?” You nod your head, wondering when you stopped feeling the weight of grief and guilt when thinking or talking about him. “They all fight like him in your homeland?”

You chuckle with a shake of your head, noting the awe and wonder in Ubbe’s tone, “No, he is-…he was one of the best.”

“Was he famous?”

“Something like that. It is said he was a descendant of Theseus, one of the greatest heroes in our history.”

“That’s the bride stealer, is it not?” Hvitserk questions, to which you frown. He makes a vague gesture with his hand, and insists, “You told me about him, he stole from one of your Gods.”

“He didn’t steal, he tried to,” You correct, your chest oddly warm at the fact that he remembers. “He tried stealing Lord Hades’ wife, and thus was punished. But no man, not even Theseus, could steal from a God, least of all the King of the Underworld.”

Shortly after the conversation goes on to other topics, topics that do not feel any less yours than those of your Gods and heroes, even if these are of the realms neighboring Kattegat or their plans across the sea.

And as he talks and argues with his brothers, you take to watching the man you married.

He always was an expressive man. With his hands, with his gestures, with his voice. When you first met you were endlessly enthralled by the movements of his hands and the tells of the furrow of his brow or the narrowing of his eyes; and in the months that came after you learned to listen for the cues in the cadence of his voice that gave as much away as his gestures did.

But when Ivar…overindulges, it is much more apparent, and you find yourself unable to look away. His hands gesture much more wildly, every inch of his face gives away more emotion and more expression, and even his voice is much livelier.

And, more than anything, you notice the way he touches you isn’t so laced by the need to show or display something, by the intent to keep up a façade or an act. Instead, it feels much softer, much more honest, much more _him_ ; the way he lays a hand on your leg -though you find yourself having to lay yours over it to stop him from trailing too high up-, the way he grasps your hand and plays with your fingers, the way when he talks to you he leans closer than he needs to -and maybe trails his cold nose up the side of your neck, chuckling devilishly when he makes you shiver-.

The night goes on, and you cling to each of these new discoveries you make, to each of these little figments you are allowed to be a witness to.

Later, in the relative privacy you can earn as Hvitserk dozes off against Thora’s shoulder and Ubbe watches raptly as two men partake in that strange game you never had the chance to ask about, where they each have a rope around their heads and tug; Ivar demands your attention with a press of his lips on the fingers of the hand he holds in his.

When you turn to him, his serious expression startles you a bit.

“The Greeks, you said they came here. Why?”

“I don’t know,” You tell him, and at the instinctual way he tenses up, as if ready to accuse you of something he knows you won’t do, you look into his eyes and offer a low murmur of, “I don’t lie to you, Ivar.”

His eyes search yours, earning a defeated edge you thought the drinks had successfully chased away.

“I-…a smart thing to do would be to kill them.”

Your heart feels struck by a pang of cold, and you shake your head, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” He doesn’t hesitate to say, “What if they come back here? What if they call for you again?”

“They have called for me, and I am still here.”

“Because Stithulf is alive.”

“No, bec-…” You start, but Ivar interrupts you, stealing your breath with simple words.

“I let him go.”

And gone is cruelty, gone is the mask. And gone is your softness, gone is the resolve.

You can only look back at him with wide eyes, feeling your breath quicken because there’s a part of you desperate to understand why you are, while surprised, not bothered by the revelation.

Relief and guilt clog your throat, and makes your next words a gasp.

“You _what_?”

“We captured him. And I let him go.” He explains, as if this is what you were asking for.

“W-Why?”

The smile he offers is a little bit mad, a little bit broken, a little bit helpless.

It’s looking back at the manic resolve in the blue eyes of the man that told you the reward for a lifetime of pain was you, it’s looking back at the defeated slump of his shoulders as he replied ‘ _Who could?_ ’ when you asked him if he believed you couldn’t love him, it’s looking back at the lost and stunned look in his face as you told him the Greeks were alive.

“Why did you stay?” Ivar asks back, an answer in itself.

You want to step back, you want to accuse him of trying to rob you of your choice, but…you had the chance to make your choice, and you made it. Stithulf’s survival didn’t matter, Ivar letting him go doesn’t matter.

It irks you, and he will definitely hear your thoughts on him trying to cheat his way out of the deal you made, when his eyes are less glossy and your chest less tight with the weight of the choice you made.

First you will tell him of your choice, you know you have to.

But for now, with the taste of mead still heavy on his lips and the feel of guilt still heavy on your heart, you will offer the truths that you can.

“I stayed because I love you,” You tell him, “You said it yourself, Ivar, Stithulf-…it was never the deal we made.”

He searches your gaze, giving away more clearly than he usually does how unmoored he is by your reaction, whether because he expected anger or because of your words, you don’t know.

Still a little lost, he mumbles, “I know.”

____

Later that night, alone in the room you share and ready to sleep off the day that has at the same time been familiar and completely new, you walk up to Ivar where he sits on your bed and after he undoes the laces of your dress work the jacket off his shoulders.

“Did you know my whole family is descended from the All-Father?” He asks you, and you only answer with a thoughtful sound as you then focus on the brace of his broken leg, choosing to take it off yourself, certain you’ll be at least partially more careful than him. Ivar continues, “That’s not just my brothers, that’s me too. I am a descendant of Odin.”

You have no idea what brought this on, and so you only offer a noncommittal answer, not really sure about what to say. You don’t doubt it, your mother always spoke of both Ragnar Lothbrok and the Princess that was a daughter to heroes; spoke of them in such manner, as did the travelers that could recount what was happening in Scandinavia, that you don’t doubt they were something more than just humans.

“That’s better than Theseus.” He comments petulantly, and you cannot help but smile.

“It is,” You confirm, when you move back up to be face to face with him not being able to stop yourself from stealing a kiss. It was intended to be soft, but there’s a biting edge to the way you press your lips to his that surprises you. Voice low, you promise, “Even if it weren’t, you are countless times the man Narses ever was.”

“Hm, am I?”

He is blatantly asking for praise, and if you’re honest with yourself you don’t have the slightest problem indulging him.

“No one compares to you in my eyes, you know that. Do you believe I would have let any other man get away with what you have?”

“Get away? Y-…”

You tug lightly on his hair to silence him, and Ivar complies with a breathed laugh.

“I’m not done,” You chastise, before your voice earns a softer tone as you search his gaze, “You are unlike anyone I ever met, you-…Sometimes I wonder if you were right, after all. When you said the Gods intervened so this could happen, so we could meet.”

“So you admit I was right.”

“No. Because if anything, the Gods sent _you_ to _me_ , not the other way around.”

Maybe he intended for his smile to be a grin, for his expression to drip mirth and the teasing edge you have come to know and love; but all that is left behind is this almost-startled softness, this open stance and vulnerable expression as Ivar gazes into your eyes.

And the smile he offers is lovesick and as lost as yours, making you wonder not for the first time if whatever the Gods made you out of is the same that they made him out of, even if the Gods and the realms and even the two of you are so different from one another.

When Ivar brings you closer and claims your mouth in his, you let him, surrendering and answering his call for you to be closer, pressing close to him as he drops on his back on the bed.

His kiss is hungry, reverent in a way you know by now but still makes a pang of heat travel through you, and his hands are insistent and leaving behind a trail of fire wherever they touch.

It doesn’t help that he has long since discarded his shirt, and the feel of his skin against yours, the feel of _him_ under your hands, leaves you drunk and dazed, much more so than if you had been the one to drink the whole night.

Still, when impatient hands insist you lift the nightgown over your head, you pull away, breaths heavy as your brow presses against his.

“No?”

“No,” You confirm, trying your hardest not to betray a fond smile. “You’re drunk, love. Not tonight.”

His brow furrows, “I’m not drunk.”

Moving to settle against him, your body against his and your mouth unable to resist pressing a few kisses over the ink on his chest, you question idly, “What are you, then?”

His smile softens, so much so and so quickly that it takes you by surprise. Ivar chuckles, hand trailing over your loose hair.

“Last time I asked you that you told me-…do you remember what you told me?”

You nod, leaning more of your weight against him and resting your chin on one of your arms that is draped over his broad chest.

“I told you I was happy.”

His eyes fall closed, but you know he’s still alert. He always is, really.

“And you’re still happy, here with me.”

“I am,” You state, fingers tracing the familiar contour of his face, stopping -as they always do- on the scar on his cheekbone before they continue a trail down, exploring leisurely. Your voice is low, almost a whisper, “I love you, Ivar.”

The only answer he offers is a low hum. He does that a lot more when he’s had plenty to drink, you’ve noticed, but not for the life of you would you ever tell him, mostly out of fear of losing those little content sounds he lets out and probably isn’t even aware of.

“You should tell me that more often,” He states without any preamble, startling you into silence. Ivar opens one eye to look at you, “You once told me if you say things you make them real. You should say you love me more often.”

“You don’t believe it’s real?” You ask, a tug of something that makes your chest feel a little tighter.

“I do. I just…” He offers a shrug, lips quirking up in the beginning of a smile.

Your voice earns a teasing edge when you lean closer, lips almost against the skin of his jaw, and ask, “Don’t I make you feel loved?”

And your heart skips a beat at the way you make him shiver.

“Y-You do.” He replies, and it sounds the question surprised him. Or maybe his answer did.

You feel your intent to tease him ebb away, leaving softness and barely anything else behind, and you smile, lips pressing one last kiss against his skin before moving to capture his mouth.

As always, Ivar easily surrenders to the touch of your lips on his, leans into your touch and your kiss with a willingness that sometimes feels jagged with edges of need and desperation.

“I love you,” You promise for good measure, offering a smile and another quick kiss, “Now sleep.”

When you turn around to lay on your side, you feel Ivar do the same, and when you hear him shuffle behind you, you find yourself almost expecting the embrace, or at least the touch of his hand on yours. But no, instead you feel rough fingers running through your hair.

“What are you doing?”

“You should wear braids all the time,” He muses, to himself more than to you, probably. You notice he is parting your hair in three sections, and clumsily braiding it as he lays on his side. Ivar continues, “They make you look like…like you belong here, like you’re mine.”

“I am yours.” You promise, the closest you can get to admitting the truth behind the choice that was never a choice at all, for tonight. When the dust settles you will tell him, but for now, for as long as he is willing to forget spring was ever a possibility, you will indulge, and speak of the passing of the cruel season on another day.

The braid is forgotten for a moment, as Ivar’s hand trails down your side, inching forward at your waist. His fingers stop just shy of between your legs.

“Since you’re mine, I should be allowed to have you.” He teases.

“But you’re also mine.”

His eyes travel to your lips, giving away desire before he even speaks, “Am I?”

“Mhm,” You turn around, seeking his warmth when you nestle closer. You look up at him with a smile that makes his eyes travel to your lips with a want you know well by now, but that still makes your heart quicken. “So, are you saying I too should be allowed to do as I please with you?” You seal your words with a kiss at the place where his collarbones dip, and you barely even have to put any pressure to make Ivar roll on his back once again. Your body pressed against him lets you feel the slight stutter of his breath in each rise and fall of his chest, and it never ceases to make you feel powerful. Keeping your eyes on his, you continue, “Are you saying I too should be allowed to claim what is mine?”

His lips part, eyes widened just slightly, and it is an answer in itself, an answer that makes heat pool low in your belly.

“I am yours.” Is the answer Ivar gives, and you bite your lip to hold back a sound that you are certain would be something between a sigh and a whimper.

“I’ll remember that.” You promise, to which he nods, maybe a little quickly, a little shakily. Settling back against his chest, you close your eyes, and if in your dreams you hear the cry of a hawk, it is quickly chased off by the soothing thrum of his heart under your ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Would love to hear your thoughts on this! 
> 
> Also, I have two things in this chapter that I want to point out: one, the Reader remembers Vikings overindulge in drinking when they mourn, yet she says she doesn’t feel like she lost someone, but the flashback is still there, I wonder why lol (I promise he’ll be less sulky soon); and two, when Ivar replies ‘Why did you stay?’ it could be that she stayed because Stithulf was alive thus his choice to let him go was the right one bc he got to keep her for the winter (which is obviously what he believes), or that his motivation in letting him go was the same as her motivation to tell the Greeks she wouldn’t leave with them, as in, she loves him and wants a life with him (though he has no way of knowing that). There you go, two useless pieces of trivia that aren’t that interesting (or that much of trivia really).


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